Mr. Blackett's great house, Binfield Towers, a mansion almost entirely
hidden by thick woods from the public gaze. George knew these woods
well, with their acres of bluebells and their breadths of primroses in
the Spring, and their wealth of dogroses in June. He turned into the
footpath that crossed the plantations, and presently found himself
gazing at the mansion a hundred yards away. The place was almost new,
the style that was known in later days as Queen Anne's. But George
knew nothing of architectural styles, and was idly counting the
multitude of windows when he was startled by a cracked old voice
calling to him from the other side of the fence that separated the
wood from the grassplots in front of the house.

"For God's sake, come along and help, my good lad," cried an old man
in livery, beckoning him frantically.

"What's the matter?" George asked quickly.

"The house is on fire," was the reply, "and there's nobody at home but
the women folk, except old Reuben, and he's just about as much use as
me, and that's none at all, I reckon."

"Where's Mr. Blackett?" the lad asked as he cleared the fence at a
bound, and stood by the old man's side on the lawn.

"Gone off to a party, and young Master Matthew with him. Run and do
what you can, for Heaven's sake, and I'll follow."

George bounded across the grass like a hare, and bolted into the house
without ceremony, for he now perceived smoke issuing from several of
the front windows. In the hall he found old Reuben, the aged butler,