e iron shutters and vaults out. Some
rubbish stands in the corner of the yard; it looked unsightly to him
yesterday, but he is thankful now, and scrambles on the unsteady pile
until he can spring up to the top of the high street fence and let
himself drop on the other side. How odd that the dog should not hear.
There is a long ray of light flashing out of a window. Something is
wrong.

He lets himself in at the main entrance again. There is a smothering
smell, a smoke, a glare. He rushes to the engine-room, but it is
up-stairs as well, everywhere, it seems, and he flies to the alarm
bell.

Some stalwart grip seizes him from behind and throws him, but he is up
in a flash. Ah, now he knows his enemy! He makes a frantic endeavor to
reach the rope, and the other keeps him away. Neither speak, but the
struggle is deadly, for the one has everything at stake, honor,
standing, all that enables a man to face the world, and a revenge that
would be so sweet. To-morrow the last business of the transfer is to be
completed, to-night's loss will fall on the Grandon family.

Neither speak. The man who has been detected in a crime fights
desperately; the life of his more fortunate rival is as nothing to him.
If the place burns and Grandon's dead body is found there, who is to
know the secret covered up? If his dead body is _not_ there, it is
disgrace and ruin for his enemy, and he will struggle with all the
mastery of soul and body, with all the inspiration, of revenge, of
safety to himself.

Grandon is strong, supple, and has a sinewy litheness, beside his
height. His antagonist has the solidity of a rock, and though his body
is much shorter, his arms are Briarius-like, everywhere, and more than
once Grandon is lifted from his feet. It seems as if the awful struggle
went on for hours while the fire is creeping stealthily about with its
long blue and scarlet tongues. He hears a crackling up-stairs, it grows
lurid within, and he remembers stories of men struggling with fiends.
There floats over his sight the image of Irene Lepelletier; of Violet,
sweet and sad-eyed. Will it be too late for her to go to happiness?
Will Pauline Murray's love be only a green withe binding the Samson of
these modern days. One more desperate encounter, and Wilmarth comes
down with a thud. He seizes the rope and rings such peals that all
Westbrook starts. Then he runs through the passageway, but is caught
again. Whatever Wilmarth does he must do quickly.