winter sunshine. There were his old windows. But--what had happened to the
roof? He stood in astonishment and apprehension, for, just above the room
where he had dwelt, the roof was an utter wreck, showing a great hole, as
if something had fallen upon it with crushing weight. As indeed was the
case; evidently the chimney-stack had come down, and doubtless in the
recent gale. Seized with anxiety on Mr. Spicer's account, he ran round to
the back of the garden and tried the door; but it was locked as usual. He
strained to peer over the garden wall, but could discover nothing that
threw light on his friend's fate; he noticed, however, a great grove of
dead, brown artichoke stems, seven or eight feet high. Looking up at the
back windows, he shouted Mr. Spicer's name; it was useless. Then, in
serious alarm, he betook himself to the house on the other side of the
passage, knocked at the door, and asked of the woman who presented herself
whether anything was known of a gentleman who dwelt where the chimney-stack
had just fallen. News was at once forthcoming; the event had obviously
caused no small local excitement. It was two days since the falling of the
chimney, which happened towards evening, when the gale blew its hardest.
Mr. Spicer was at that moment sitting before the fire, and only by a
miracle had he escaped destruction, for an immense weight of material came
down through the rotten roof, and even broke a good deal of the flooring.
Had the occupant been anywhere but close by the fireplace, he must have
been crushed to a mummy; as it was, only a few bricks struck him,
inflicting severe bruises on back and arms. But the shock had been serious.
When his shouts from the window at length attracted attention and brought
help, the poor man had to be carried downstairs, and in a thoroughly
helpless state was removed to the nearest hospital.

'Which room was he in?' inquired Goldthorpe. 'Back or front?'

'In the front room. The back wasn't touched.'