The burning house faced the east; and now that the flames were on a level with the window-sill of the third-floor the sunlight struck the windows full, and they blazed with light. The people murmured, thinking the upper floor was burning.
For a moment all eyes were directed upwards; and while dispute ran high as to whether the glare came from within or without there was a crash below, and a shout of dismay, and all eyes were lowered.
The ladder on which the fireman had been standing had snapped in two, and he and a portion of the ladder had fallen into the area.
Cheyne stood up and shook himself. He might be of help to this poor fellow, who had been so cruelly treated by Fate in the discharge of his perilous duty.
All at once a yell of horror burst from the crowd, and someone shrieked:
A hundred arms pointed frantically aloft.
Cheyne raised his eyes, and saw, at the window of the third-floor of the burning house, lighted up by the sweet cool light of early summer morning, Marion Durrant!
When Marion Durrant went down the steps of No. 8, Garthorne Street, that evening, she was in despair. She did not know where to turn or what to do. She had tried three times to get lodgings, and had failed. She would not go to an hotel; and even if she did, she now felt certain they would not take her in. She had money in her pocket; but she had no luggage, no reference; and both reference and luggage seemed almost more necessary than money. If she had had no money, but had been able to give a reference, she had no doubt the lady whom she had just left would have let her stay the night anyway. Now what should she do? It was cruel to think that she, who had done no wrong, and had money in her pocket, and was willing to pay for it, could not get a lodging that night in great London. She had often heard it said that, with money, one could do anything; and yet here was she with money, and she could not get the commonest of all human necessaries, a roof to cover her.
There was only one thing impossible, and that was that she should go back to Knightsbridge. But she did not know what to do. The notion of walking about the streets all night was appalling; still it was preferable to going back. Anything was better than going back. She would rather sit down by the side of the way and die than anything else. But she was she felt, young and strong and full of life; and as to interfering with her existence, the thought was as little to be entertained as that of returning to Knightsbridge; going back was her ideal of absolute impossibility.