Desperate with the dread of
losing his manuscript, his toil, his one hope, the realist
scarcely stayed to listen to a warning that the fumes were
impassable; with head bent he rushed up to the next landing.
There lay Briggs, perchance already stifled, and through the open
door Biffen had a horrible vision of furnace fury. To go yet
higher would have been madness but for one encouragement: he knew
that on his own storey was a ladder giving access to a trap-door,
by which he might issue on to the roof, whence escape to the
adjacent houses would be practicable. Again a leap forward!
In fact, not two minutes elapsed from his commencing the ascent
of the stairs to the moment when, all but fainting, he thrust the
key into his door and fell forward into purer air. Fell, for he
was on his knees, and had begun to suffer from a sense of failing
power, a sick whirling of the brain, a terror of hideous death.
His manuscript was on the table, where he had left it after
regarding and handling it with joyful self-congratulation; though
it was pitch dark in the room, he could at once lay his hand on
the heap of paper.
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