in smoke and the shells fell fast on Montparnasse. At twenty minutes after four two projectiles struck a house in the rue de Bac, and a moment later the first shell fell in the Latin Quarter.
Braith was painting in bed when West came in very much scared.
“I wish you would come down; our house has been knocked into a cocked hat, and I’m afraid that some of the pillagers may take it into their heads to pay us a visit to-night.”
Braith jumped out of bed and bundled himself into a garment which had once been an overcoat.
“Anybody hurt?” he inquired, struggling with a sleeve full of dilapidated lining.
“No. Colette is barricaded in the cellar, and the concierge ran away to the fortifications. There will be a rough gang there if the bombardment keeps up. You might help us———”
“Of course,” said Braith; but it was not until they had reached the rue Serpente and had turned in the passage which led to West’s cellar, that the latter cried: “have you seen Jack Trent to-day?”
“No,” replied Braith looking troubled, “he was not at Ambulance Headquarters.”
“He stayed to take care of Sylvia, I suppose.”
A bomb came crashing through the roof of a house at the end of the alley and burst in the basement, showering the street with slate and plaster. A second struck a chimney and plunged into the garden, followed by an avalanche of bricks, and another exploded with a deafening report in the next street.
