The grime on the detective’s face had changed it so completely that he was not surprised that there was no recognition in the eyes of the man looking down at him. Indeed, the man did not see him. He only peered past him into the gloom, where the girl stood.
“Where is your father, Bessie?” he asked. “I’m coming down.”
“No, stay where you are!” interposed Nick. “You can be more helpful up there. I’ll bring her father.”
Old Roscoe Silvius, haggard from illness, sat up on a bed in the adjoining room. Nick wrapped him in a blanket and had him out before the old man knew what was happening.
It was not an easy task to lift the helpless old man through the trap. But Howard Milmarsh helped from above, and it was accomplished in less time than might have been expected.
“Now, you!” cried the detective to the girl. “I’ll lift you.”
Bessie Silvius helped herself a great deal, and in a moment was on the roof, by the side of her father and Howard Milmarsh—as, for convenience, we will continue to call the young man.
Nick followed the girl with one active spring, and, standing upright on the roof, looked around. One glance was enough to show him that their only hope of escape lay in crossing the roof of the next house, and so reaching a place where they might descend to the street.
The next house was the one which had suffered most by the fire, and the roof looked as if it might fall in at any moment. Therein lay most of their peril.