The wall of fire closed across the doorway again and the work of red ruin went on with a crashing of timbers from the upper part of the building.
As that living wall shut solidly, Jacqueline leaped forward, shouting, like a man, words of hope and rescue; Pierre caught her barely in time—a precarious grasp on the wrist from which she nearly wrenched herself free and gained the entrance to the fire. But the jerk threw her off balance for the least fraction of an instant, and the next moment she was safe in his arms.
Safe? He might as well have held a wildcat, or captured with his bare hands a wild eagle, strong of talon and beak. She tore and raged in a wild fury.
"Pierre, coward, devil!"
"Steady, Jack!"
"Are you going to let him die?"
"Don't you see? He's already dead."
"You lie. You only fear the fire!"
"I tell you, McGurk has been here before us."
Her arm was freed by a twisting effort and she beat him furiously across the face. One blow cut his lip and a steady trickle of hot blood left a taste of salt in his mouth.
"You young fiend!" he cried, and grasped both her wrists with a crushing force.
She leaned and gnashed at his hands, but he whirled her about and held her from behind, impotent, raging still.
"A hundred McGurks could never have killed him!"
