At last, as he broke a final bed slat upon the door, Stuart sank exhausted, incapable of effort or outcry. It was then that his fevered mind heard what seemed to be an echo to his pounding. The door reverberated with heavy strokes from the other side. Stuart shouted again and heard an answering word.
"Steady!" came a voice, that seemed choked with smoke. "Back from the door! I've broken the bolts. Here goes the lock."
Stuart heard a muffled revolver shot. Then another report. A third seemed to roar in his ears. It was fired through an opening in the door. The lock was broken. The door swung inward, Stuart crawling away to avoid its path.
The open doorway revealed an amazing scene.
A man was standing in the center of a surging swirl of smoke. All about him was a ruddy glow — the reflection of flames that were consuming the old house. The man was stooped forward, his head muffled by a coat, wringing wet.
As Stuart started to rise, he fell back, choked by the incoming smoke. The man stooped quickly and placed his own coat over Stuart's head.
Crawling, the rescuer spied Stuart's coat on the floor and picked it up. He threw this, likewise, over Stuart. Choking, he pressed the two coats together.
Stuart's coat was still somewhat damp from the rain. The added moistness sufficed to make it a good protection against the smoke. The stranger slipped the coat over his own head and tried to help Stuart to his feet.
Progress was slow at first. But Stuart, responding to his rescuer's heroic efforts, used all his strength. The man had dropped a revolver in his work; he picked it up. Together, Stuart and his companion made the stairs. There they began a terrible descent.
It was like a trip into an active volcano. The smoke came upward with blinding thickness.
Only by holding their coats tightly over their heads could the men make their way. Flames were licking up the side of the stairs. Some of the steps were charred. But ahead lay safety. The roaring furnace was directly beneath the room where Stuart had been, and the stairs led in the opposite direction.
Stuart was on the inside. The other man took the dangerous outer portion of the stairs.
Once his foot went through a burning step; he caught himself and continued.
The front door was straight ahead. It was partly opened. Before it seethed a ring of hot-tongued flame. Stuart staggered before they reached the bottom step. With a mighty effort, his companion seized him and dragged him roughshod through the fast-increasing blaze.
The rescuer used every ounce of strength to make the passage a rapid one. He virtually flung his helpless burden through the door and came staggering afterward. Then both men lay face downward on the rain-soaked drive, panting and choking.
Stuart felt his breath coming back; but he seemed incapable of motion. Behind him was the surging roar of the fire. A falling piece of wood landed blazing beside him.
But, again, the other man was equal to the task. Recovered from his furious fight through the smoke-filled house, he rose to his feet and lifted Stuart with him.
He lifted off the wet coats. Stuart saw the other man's face for the first time. Harry Vincent was the rescuer: but Stuart had never met him. He only knew that this brave chap had come in the nick of time. A few more minutes would have meant the doom of Stuart Bruxton.
"Come along," said Harry, "we've got to move!"
The warning was a timely one. The house, with flames sweeping from all corners, had become a menace at this close range. Burning beams were shooting outward and landing about it. Stuart limped along the driveway, by Harry's side. His companion noticed his difficulty, and gave him support on the left. They reached the road and turned toward the bridge. Stuart, trudging mechanically, never looked for the wreck of his car.
Harry was carrying the coats. He felt in the pocket of his own and produced a flashlight.
It was necessary, here along the ground, although the cloudy sky above was lighted with the glare of the burning house.
The light pointed out the fallen portion of the bridge — a section which extended downward from the nearest pier.
"Somebody got over by a rope, I think," said Harry. "I saw the end of it tied to the bridge.
We'll have to scramble for it — the way I came over. It's about twenty-five feet, but the water's hardly over your head here."
With that, he led Stuart to the edge of the swiftly moving stream, and the two plunged into the current above the fallen end of the bridge. Stuart was a good swimmer, but effort was difficult for him now. Harry helped him as they floundered through.
The current carried them downward, but before they were swept too far, they had covered the distance, and their feet were slipping on the fallen roadway of the broken portion of the bridge. Harry jammed Stuart against the rail and followed him. They made their way upward to the solid pier. From then on, the bridge was shaky, but safe. Weakened though it was, the center of the structure had not yet succumbed to the swollen branch of the shallow river.
To Stuart, this last stretch was more nerve-racking than all that had gone before. Each step seemed a tremendous ordeal.
They reached the road, and Harry urged his tired companion to a coupe that was parked sidewise off the edge of the road. Stuart entered and sank exhausted beside the driver's seat. The car spun madly up the hill as Harry shot it into second gear. They were driving away, posthaste, from the scene of the misfortunes that had almost overwhelmed Stuart Bruxton. They passed the barrier across the road. Here, Harry stopped long enough to replace it.
They continued upward, and at one spot Stuart looked to see great flames surging up above the treetops on the island, far below.
The coupe shot onward until it passed the fork that came in from the right. Then Harry, with a sigh of relief, slackened speed.
His mad pace had been a wise one, for they had traveled less than half a mile before they met a rural fire truck. After it followed half a dozen automobiles, at intervals.
Harry glanced over his shoulder. Through the rear window, he could see the dull glare of the horizon.
"They'll think we've come over the open road," was his only comment. This proved to be correct, for a man hailed them from beside the road. He was standing by a car that had developed motor trouble. The vehicle was loaded with natives. Harry slowed down and looked through the window.
"Where's the fire?" came the question. "Down on the lower road?"
"Guess so," said Harry.
"Could you see it from the upper road, coming from Herkimer?"
"Was just looking at it," answered Harry, stopping the car.
"Must be the old house on the island," said the man.
"Anybody live there?" asked Harry.
"No," was the reply. "The owner died a year ago, and the place has been closed up since.
Some old beds in there. Maybe some tramps were living in the place. Those bums often start fires, drat 'em!" Harry drove on, and as they rode, he spoke to the man beside him.
"My names Harry Vincent," he said. "Yours?"
"Stuart Bruxton. Thanks for pulling me out of that mess."
"Forget that part of it," Harry interposed. "What I want to know is how you got into it."
Leaning his head back against the corner of the coupe, Stuart recited his story. Harry listened intently, while his eyes watched the road.
The fact that Stuart had been mistaken for Powell interested Harry greatly. So did the description of the old man, and the naming of Grady, the murderer.
The whole situation began to clear in Harry's mind. Stuart's bluff that he had left the papers in the hotel was the key.
Unquestionably, the old man had begun to doubt that Stuart was Powell. He had sent Grady to investigate. If Stuart had been Powell, Grady would have tried to get the papers.