"Mr. Smith!" he cried—and staggered down the path—"Dr. Petrie! What—"
There came a deafening explosion. From EVERY visible window of the deserted cottage flames burst forth!
"QUICK!" Smith's voice rose almost to a scream—"into the house!"
He raced up the path, past Inspector Weymouth, who stood swaying there like a drunken man. I was close upon his heels. Behind me came the police.
The door was impassable! Already, it vomited a deathly heat, borne upon stifling fumes like those of the mouth of the Pit. We burst a window. The room within was a furnace!
"My God!" cried someone. "This is supernatural!"
"Listen!" cried another. "Listen!"
The crowd which a fire can conjure up at any hour of day or night, out of the void of nowhere, was gathering already. But upon all descended a pall of silence.
From the heat of the holocaust a voice proclaimed itself—a voice raised, not in anguish but in TRIUMPH! It chanted barbarically—and was still.
The abnormal flames rose higher—leaping forth from every window.