Lemuel heard Berry ask him through the fog, “Barker, where's old Evans?”
“Oh, I don't know!” he lamented back.
“He must have gone up to get Mrs. Evans.”
He made a dash towards the stairs. A fireman caught him and pulled him back. “You can't go up; smoke's thick as hell up there.” But Lemuel pulled away, and shot up the stairs. He heard the firemen stop Berry.
“You can't go, I tell you! Who's runnin' this fire anyway, I'd like to know?”
He ran along the corridor which Evans's apartment opened upon. There was not much smoke there; it had drawn up the elevator-well, as if in a chimney.
He burst into the apartment and ran to the inner room, where he had once caught a glimpse of Mrs. Evans sitting by the window.
Evans stood leaning against the wall, with his hand at his breast. He panted, “Help her—help—”
“Where is she? Where is she?” demanded Lemuel.
She came from an alcove in the room, holding a handkerchief drenched with cologne in her hand, which she passed to her husband's face. “Are you better now? Can you come, dear? Rest on me!”