"You can't get through just here--there's a house been struck in
Peter the Great Terrace! 'Twas the last bomb did it!"

Sherston uttered a groan--Ah! If only that were true! But he had
just now glanced up and seen the row of big substantial eighteenth
century houses, of which his was the end one, solidly outlined
against the star-powdered sky, though every pane of glass had been
blown out.

Then some one turned round. "It's the corner house been struck.
Bomb fell right through the skylight. They've sent for the firemen
to see what damage was done. You can't see anything from this
side."

THROUGH THE SKYLIGHT?

Sherston was a powerful man. He forced his way, he did not know
how, blindly, to the very front of the crowd.

Yes, there were two firemen standing by the low, sunk-in door, that
door through which he had come and gone hundreds, nay thousands, of
times, in his life. So much was true, but everything else was as
usual. "I live here," he said hoarsely. "Will you let me through?"

The fireman shook his head. "No, sir. I can't let any one through.
And if I did 'twould be no good. The staircase is clean gone--a
great big stone staircase, too! It's all in bits, just like a lot
of rubble. The front of the house ain't touched, but the center
and behind--well, sir, you never did see such a sight!"