A match struck. Nora noticed how it shook, how the hands that held a candle wobbled with it. Whoever it was, the gardener, she thought, had trouble sticking it to one of the shelves that held wine bottles. The first thing Nora saw was the maids, hugging each other, pale as death.
The next thing she saw was a big wine barrel that wine was gurgling out of. Then she saw Mrs.
Sloan, underneath it.
“We’ll have to get out of here,” Willis said. “And get her out.”
“Better wait a bit,” the gardener answered.
“Wait—the devil! The building above us is probably on fire. Try the door.” Willis came over to the chair where Nora was sitting and smiled faintly. “You all right, Miss?”
“Fine,” Nora said and she pointed to Mrs. Sloan. “Her legs are pinned under.”
Willis nodded.
The maids began to whimper. He stood in front of them. “Stop that, everyone of you!” he said. He turned to the butler. “Jeff, tear off a shelf-board and bear a hand! We’ll have to prize that hogshead off her. If she’s living.”
Nora heard the butler yanking in the gloom. One of the maids went back there with him and returned first, carrying a two-by-four. From the door, which he’d opened, the gardener called, “Stairway’s kind of blocked and it does smell smoky-like.”