Crosson heard the lovers murmur to each other across that little abyss. He flung himself against the barriers like a madman. But his hands were futile against the tangle of joists and hot steel.
Irene saw him working alone and asked him where the others were, and the doctors.
"They wouldn't come!" Crosson groaned, ashamed of their ugly sense of justice.
The girl's face took on a look of grim ferocity. She said to Crosson:
"Your gun—where is it?"
He pointed to where he had left it. It had fallen to the ground.
She ran and seized it up, and holding it awkwardly but with menace, advanced on a doctor who toiled with sleeves rolled high, and face and beard and arms blotched with red grime.
She thrust the muzzle into his chest and spoke hoarsely:
"Doctor Lane, you come with me."
"I'm busy here," he growled, pushing the gun aside, hardly knowing what it was.