“Then will you shew me the way and take these infants to Seymour Street? Raney will follow as soon as he can bring Sonia down.”
“And you?”
“I’m going back to give him a hand.”
“Must you?”
“There may be other people in the house. Servants.”
Barbara lifted the child off my shoulders into her arms and hurried down a side street. The fog was lifting rapidly, too rapidly; I could see across the street and I wondered how much could be seen on the battlefield outside The Sanctuary.
“If you must . . .” Barbara murmured. “George, I told Robson I was coming to see if I could help you; but . . . I brought the car to take back your dead body.”
“I’ve no intention of being killed,” I said, “but we can’t leave people to be burnt alive.”
“Well, . . . take the revolver,” said Barbara helplessly.
When we had put the children inside the car, I went back at a run down Great College Street to Smith Square. The fog lay in pockets so that I could see thirty yards at one moment and less than three at another. I fancied, as I neared The Sanctuary, that the noise had diminished; I could see neither fire nor smoke; and, though my own road was deserted, I thought I could hear the patter of running feet. It was more than time for the reinforcements to have arrived; it was more than a likelihood that, with the increasing light, experience and discipline were favouring the police. I was halfway through Smith Square when I heard a sound of crying and saw a woman’s figure cowering against the railings. As I went forward, I was greeted with a scream of terror; the figure turned to run, and I recognized Sonia.