Jack waited only to cast one last look along that front to the north, as if desirous of impressing the picture upon his mind forever. He had always possessed a faculty for mental photography which had been cultivated to the limit, and which had served him well in times past.
“I’m coming after you, Amos!” he called out, cheerily, as he started down the ladder.
Amos had meanwhile reached the upper floor of the house. Mechanically he stepped over some of the broken furniture and fragments of shattered wall to make for the stairway leading below.
At the head of this he paused to wait for Jack, who had just then called out that he was on the way. So they came together again.
Amos pointed to what seemed to be the remains of a cradle.
“The people who lived here had children, that’s sure,” remarked Jack. “I’ve seen toys lying around, and other things besides.”
“What happened to them, do you suppose?” asked tender-hearted Amos.
“Oh! the chances are this man fled with his family when first the war broke out,” Jack declared. “He was a man of means, and kept his motor car, because there’s a fine garage in the yard outside.”
“I hadn’t noticed that, Jack. It certainly is little that escapes your sharp eyes. But I hope they got to a safe place.”
“Dunkirk and Calais are both really close at hand,” continued Jack, disregarding the praise of his cousin, “and there’s no question but this family found refuge there. Let’s hope he managed to save his people even if his fine country place is next door to ruined.”