# Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 21

XXI
AND p being cognate letters'! 'M and p being cognate letters'!"
The phrase clung, and Gordon found himself saying it over and over in a sort of singsong as he left the hotel and turned southward along the boulevard. The night had grown dark. Over the lake, away from the effulgence of the city lights, the sky was like black velvet. There was a feeling of rain in the still, mild air.
"'M and p being cognate letters'!"
Back of its absurd babbling his mind was striving to work calmly. "'M and p—'" Could it be Peggy, the girl the reporter had spoken of? Margaret Mills! She had never told him her name, but "Margaret Mills" seemed to touch a chord of memory. Surely he had heard the name before somewhere! Margaret might well be her real name, Peggy only a diminutive—"m and p ​being cognate letters!" And what little the reporter had said of her tallied so well with what Gordon knew!" She'd have turned you inside out if she had wanted to!" Gordon groaned. She had already done that!
He had all along imagined, for no special reason apparently, that Peggy was in Philadelphia. Now he became certain that she was right here in Chicago. There was breathless excitement in the thought. He was in the same town with her, perhaps only a block away for all he knew! To-morrow he might meet her face to face on the street! He had agreed not to search for her, but should they meet by accident she could lay no blame on him. And if they did meet— All the old longing surged up in him imperiously, chokingly, leaving him dizzy for a moment.
A corner light proclaimed Fifteenth Street, but he kept on with no thought of distance nor direction. The boulevard was fairly empty. Now and then a carriage pattered by or an automobile swept past in a glare of light, but there were few pedestrians. The silence grew with the blocks traversed and the city seemed hushed in expectancy. The air had grown lifeless. Far off ​to the westward a flash of lightning ripped the darkness.
If they did meet—what? What was to be said that had not already been said? It was not likely that five months had shaken her determination. He had allowed her to choose and she had chosen; and he had accepted the verdict with what he prided himself was good grace; would it be fair to try to alter it all now?
The sound of running steps half a block ahead broke into his thoughts. A dark figure crossed the boulevard from one of the streets leading toward the lake and paused under a lamp-post. In the stillness Gordon heard, or thought he heard, the buzz of the alarm as the man released the hook. Gordon hurried his pace, but before he reached the corner the figure had disappeared again, running, into the darkness of the side street. It was a narrow cul-de-sac, poorly lighted, lined with shabby-genteel brick houses with high stoops. Lights shone here and there from transoms and windows, and three-quarters of the way toward the blind end of the street a yellow glare streamed across the pavement from an opened door. Figures moved there and voices came ​toward him down the shallow canyon. He broke into a run.
When he reached the house a small throng had already gathered about the door and on the sidewalk. Footsteps rang on the uneven flags as the neighboring houses caught the alarm. Smoke curled through the doorway, and the gaslight at the foot of the narrow stairs burned dimly.
"The kitchen's all on fire," said a shrill, excited voice. "We tried to put it out, but we couldn't." Gordon turned to find a white-faced, untidy maid beside him.
"Are they all out?" he asked.
"Cook ain't come yet. She went up for her box. She'd better hurry, hadn't she? Do you think it'll burn all down?"
"Anybody ring the alarm?" asked a pompous elderly man in a flowered dressing-gown. He pushed past Gordon and addressed a stout woman who stood nearby with a bird cage in her hand. Within the cage a canary kept up an agitated chirping. "Too bad, Mrs. Judson, too bad, on my word!" exclaimed the elderly man. His tones quite plainly proclaimed his delight in the excitement. "Where did it start, ma'am?"
​"In the kitchen. Cook had some fat on the stove and the fire was too hot, I guess, and it boiled over and the first thing I knew the house was full of smoke. Seems like them engines might get here some time, don't it?"
As though in reply there came the distant clanging of a bell and the shriek of a whistle. Gordon glanced up at the front of the house. On the third floor a window showed a square of light. He walked to the farther side of the street and peered upward again. As he looked an arm reached up and drew down the shade.
"Somebody's up there yet, ain't they?" asked a voice beside him. It belonged to a tall youth with a cigarette hanging from the comer of his mouth.
"Did you see somebody pull the curtain down?" demanded Gordon doubtfully.
"Sure I did! He'll be comin' down on a ladder if he don't get a move on."
Gordon pushed his way through the growing throng and sprang up the steps. Warnings followed him as he met the first choking gust of smoke at the door. Halfway up the first flight of stairs he heard from behind him the clanging ​of the engine gongs and the trampling of the horses. From above him came a thumping sound, and as he reached the hall above he saw a shawled and bonneted woman descending the next flight dragging a small trunk behind her.
"Hurry up!" he called to her. "Is there anyone else up there?"
She paid no heed to him, seeming in a trance of terror, as, still tugging the trunk behind her, she went along the narrow passage to the lower flight, muttering to herself. Gordon's first impulse was to take the trunk from her, the next to let her manage it herself and make certain that the upper floor was empty. The smoke was pouring up the staircase well and his eyes were smarting and running. He took the next flight in bounds. The smoke was thicker here than below. Over his head a dirty skylight caught the reflection of the dim flame of the bracket gas light. Five doors opened from the hallway. He took them in succession. The room on the back of the house showed signs of hurried flight. Gordon lighted matches as he flung open closed doors. An untenanted room, a closet filled with brooms and brushes and soiled linen, another unused room, ​and, finally, a door at the end of the hallway, locked. He beat on the panel and shouted.
"Is there any one in there? The house is afire!"
There was no response. Gordon held his handkerchief to his face and again tried the door. It resisted firmly and he turned away. But halfway, to the stairs he stopped. Surely it had been in that room that the hand had pulled down the shade! The cook? She would never have stayed to lock the door and remove the key! And no one else had descended the stairs! Unless both he and the youth with the cigarette had been victims of optical illusion, that room was still occupied! From below came the sound of breaking glass, the tramp of feet and hoarse commands. From without came the steady throb of the engines. The light in the bracket burned red through the murk. Gordon ran back to the door, raised a foot and sent it crashing against the lock. The door gave and he stumbled into the room. A small table went over as he tried to save himself by it and an ink bottle hurtled across the floor, leaving a trail of black on the shabby carpet. He closed the door behind him and leaned ​against it for an instant, fighting for breath. The air was purer here. Across the room the gas was turned low, but there was light enough to see the bureau by the window, the tall ungainly wardrobe, the overturned table, a chair or two and a small bed upon which lay stretched a woman's form, black gowned, flattened against the rumpled coverlid. Gordon's streaming eyes closed in agony, and when, groping blindly toward the bed, he opened them again a white face, filled with terror and a great wonder, was looking up into his. With a cry he sank at the side of the bed and gathered her into his arms.