"The whole of the lower valley is flooded. The Magician's bungalow has
been swept away!"
"What?" gasped Ronnie. "What?"
He sprang to his feet, the awful look in Baring's eyes reflected in his
own, and made a dash for the doorway in which Baring stood. He stumbled
as he reached, it and the latter threw out a supporting arm.
"It's no use your going," he said, his voice hard and mechanical.
"There's nothing to be done. I've been as near as it is possible to get.
It's nothing but a raging torrent half a mile across."
He moved straight forward to a chair, and thrust the boy down into it.
There was a terrible stiffness--almost a fixity--about him. He did not
seem conscious of the men that crowded round him. It was not his
habitual reserve that kept him from collapse at that moment; it was
rather a stunned sense of expediency.
"There's nothing to be done," he repeated.
He looked down at Ronnie, who was clutching at the table with both
hands, and making ineffectual efforts to speak.
"Give him some brandy, one of you!" he said.
Someone held a glass against the boy's chattering teeth. The colonel
poured some spirit into another and gave it to Baring.
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