O'Donnell and his wife drove furiously to Hoxton. Neither spoke the whole way. Each was mute with terror, hope, and fear, all beating wildly about in their minds. When they reached Cecil Street there was no longer any doubt of the truth of Lavirotte's story. The house was all in a blaze. A double line of police kept back the crowd, and several engines were busily at work. The cab drew up just outside the line of police. O'Donnell told his wife to sit where she was. He had snatched up an overcoat and hat on his way from the theatre, and in the cab removed as much of the make-up as possible from his face, so that there was little or nothing unusual in his appearance. He was about to rush through the line of police when one of them caught him. O'Donnell shook off the hand, and said: "It is my house. Is my boy safe?" "Beg pardon, sir. There's the inspector," said the policeman. O'Donnell went up to the inspector, and cried excitedly: "This is my house. Can you tell me if my boy is safe?" The inspector turned round and looked steadily at O'Donnell for a second or two. "Are you sure the boy was in the house?" "Yes, quite sure; and an old servant. Bridget is her name." "Oh," said the inspector, looking at O'Donnell again, "I think you may make your mind easy. We did not know there was anyone in the house. We heard it was Mr. O'Donnell's house." "My name is O'Donnell, and my boy and servant were in the house when we left. The boy is between two and three years old." "You are quite sure the boy and woman were there at the time the fire broke out?" "When did it break out?" asked O'Donnell. "At about half-past six; between that and seven." "Oh, yes," said O'Donnell. "They are sure to have been both there at that time. The boy always went to bed at six, and the servant never stirred out. She did not know a soul in the neighbourhood." "Then, sir, I think you may make your mind quite easy. It is almost certain that upon the first alarm of fire she fled with the child from the house." "But where can she have fled to? I tell you she had no friends in the neighbourhood. We are only newly come here." "Perhaps she might have known where you were." "Oh, yes, she knew where I was. She knew I was to be at the Oberon Theatre tonight, and that my wife was to be with me. I was to have sung there to-night, but had to let a friend take my part when I got this news. Do you really think, inspector, the boy is safe?" "Well, you see, the chances are a thousand to one the servant is safe, because it isn't likely she was asleep at such an hour, and just after putting the child to bed; and 'twould be quite easy for any grown-up person to get out of a small house like that." "Do you know where the fire broke out?" "In that room there, looking into the side passage." "Why, that's where the boy and the servant slept." "Then, sir, that makes me all the surer they are both safe, for the chances are that by some accident she set fire to the room and then ran away with the child." "I thank God," cried O'Donnell fervently. "I will run and tell my wife; she is in a cab near." O'Donnell ran back to the hansom. "Good news!" he cried, "good news! The inspector tells me the boy and Bridget are safe." Mrs. O'Donnell merely clasped her hands. She did not speak. Her hands fell in her lap. Her head dropped back. She had fainted. "Policeman," cried O'Donnell, "where is the nearest hotel?" The policeman told him. O'Donnell jumped into the cab and drove to it. Restoratives were applied, and in a short time she recovered consciousness. The people at the hotel had heard of the fire, and were willing to lend all the assistance in their power. A room was prepared for Mrs. O'Donnell, and when he had seen that everything was done for her comfort, Eugene left her, promising to return soon. "You will bring him to me the moment you find him?" said the poor mother feebly. "I should be quite well if Mark were here. I do not want you to leave me, but you must go and find our boy. If he and Bridget are not at the theatre, you are sure to find him in some neighbour's house. Anyone would take them in!" O'Donnell assured his wife he would not lose a moment in bringing the boy, kissed her tenderly, and left her. As he returned to the fire, he thought: "I need not lose time going to the theatre. Lavirotte and Fraser know I am here and am likely to stay here, and they will be sure to send someone with news of the boy and nurse if they should turn up at the theatre." When he got back to the fire, he sought the inspector and asked him if any message had come from the Oberon. The inspector replied in the negative. Then O'Donnell told him he was sure a messenger would come if Bridget and the boy got there. Then he asked the inspector: "Wasn't it likely if Bridget ran to any of the neighbours they would take her and the boy in?" "Of course, they would be only too glad of the chance," said the inspector. "Is there nothing can be done?" said O'Donnell. "Can I do nothing?" The inspector waved his hand towards the fire: "That's all in the hands of the firemen now. They had given up trying to save any of the furniture before you arrived. Since you left me I have been making inquiries, and I find that before anyone entered the house the room over the passage was burnt out, and that nothing is known up to this of the child or the servant. I got a description of both the nurse and the boy from your next-door neighbour, and sent it to the office. Word will be sent round from there, and the moment they have any news they are to forward it to me." "What had I better do, then?" said O'Donnell, who was in a state of feverish restlessness. "If you will take my advice," said the inspector, "you will go back to Mrs. O'Donnell, and stay with her. We shall certainly have the first news, and I will send it on to you." "I can't," he said; "I can't go back until I have the boy with me. I told her I would go to her the moment I found him, and if I went without him she would get a great shock, for her first impression would be that I had bad news about him, and I should be unable to get that idea out of her mind for a long time, if at all, before he was brought to us. I cannot, I will not go back without him," said O'Donnell, frantically. He now for the first time realised the fact that his boy might be lost to them for ever. "It will kill his mother," he added, "if anything happens to our child." Then he put his hand before his eyes, and turned away from the inspector. The inspector turned away from him, issued some unnecessary orders in a loud voice, and walked off. O'Donnell could not leave the spot. If good news were to come, that would be the first place it would reach. If it was his cruel fate that he should have to learn bad news, it should be extracted from the ashes of that blazing fire. No, he could not leave this spot. He could not return to his wife; and to go inquiring of neighbour after neighbour if he had seen Mark, would be triple pain upon pain, disappointment upon disappointment, suspense unhappily resolved on suspense unhappily renewed. By this time it was growing late. The fire had spent its fury. There was no danger of its spreading, and the roof of the doomed house was expected every moment to fall in. O'Donnell paced up and down restlessly inside the lines of police where the firemen were busy. Now and then he spoke a few words to the inspector. Now and then the inspector spoke a few cheering words to him. Still no message came from the theatre. Still no message came from the police-station. Another hour dragged its weary length along; and still no message, no news, no tidings of any kind. Gradually the inspector had seemed to lose hopefulness. He had begun to admit to Eugene it was strange they heard nothing of the woman or the boy. He looked at his watch. "Half-past eleven," he said. "I am surprised. And yet, I cannot but believe they have both escaped." Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd outside the line of police. A sergeant came to the inspector, who was standing with O'Donnell, and told him that a woman representing herself as the child's nurse was in the crowd. The inspector and O'Donnell hastened to the spot where she stood. O'Donnell was not able to speak. He saw she had not the boy with her. "When did you leave the house?" said the inspector. "At about half-past six." "You took the boy with you?" "No, sir. I left him in the house." "My God!" cried O'Donnell. "Then there is no hope?" This question, addressed to the inspector by O'Donnell, was not answered. The policeman turned away, and, addressing one of the sergeants, said: "The crowd must stand farther back." O'Donnell seized the railing of the house opposite his burning home, and said quietly to himself: "Our little boy! our little Mark is dead! We shall never see him again, never!" Then he placed both his arms on the railings, and leaned his head on his arms, and the inspector led the woman away, and the sergeant kept the crowd farther back, and the people who had been looking at the fire through the windows facing where he leant, went away from their windows, drew down the blinds, and lowered the gas. They knew O'Donnell by sight. They had watched what had passed, and they guessed that the father had been overwhelmed by the certainty of his child's death.