He could now smell the smoke, and all at once a black
volume of it, bursting from upper windows, alarmed his sight. At
once he was aware that, if not his own dwelling, it must be one
of those on either side that was in flames. As yet no engine had
arrived, and straggling policemen were only just beginning to
make their way to the scene of uproar. By dint of violent effort
Biffen moved forward yard by yard. A tongue of flame which
suddenly illumined the fronts of the houses put an end to his
doubt.
'Let me get past!' he shouted to the gaping and swaying mass of
people in front of him. 'I live there! I must go upstairs to save
something!'
His educated accent moved attention. Repeating the demand again
and again he succeeded in getting forward, and at length was near
enough to see that people were dragging articles of furniture out
on to the pavement.
'That you, Mr Biffen?' cried someone to him.
He recognised the face of a fellow-lodger.
'Is it possible to get up to my room?' broke frantically from his
lips.
'You'll never get up there. It's that-- Briggs'--the epithet was
alliterative--''as upset his lamp, and I 'ope he'll--well get
roasted to death.
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