Evidently not too soon, for the other buildings were already deserted by their would-be salvors, who had filled the streets with piles of books and valuables waiting to be carried away.  Then occurred a terrible phenomenon, which had once before in such disasters paralyzed the efforts of the firemen.  A large wooden warehouse in the centre of the block of offices, many hundred feet from the scene of active conflagration—­which had hitherto remained intact—­suddenly became enveloped in clouds of smoke, and without warning burst as suddenly from roof and upper story into vivid flame.  There were eye-witnesses who declared that a stream of living fire seemed to leap upon it from the burning district, and connected the space between them with an arch of luminous heat.  In another instant the whole district was involved in a whirlwind of smoke and flame, out of whose seething vortex the corrugated iron buildings occasionally showed their shriveling or glowing outlines.  And then the fire swept on and away.

When the sun again arose over the panic-stricken and devastated city, all personal incident and disaster was forgotten in the larger calamity.  It was two or three days before the full particulars could be gathered—­even while the dominant and resistless energy of the people was erecting new buildings upon the still-smoking ruins.  It was only on the third day afterwards that James Farendell, on the deck of a coasting steamer, creeping out through the fogs of the Golden Gate, read the latest news in a San Francisco paper brought by the pilot.  As he hurriedly comprehended the magnitude of the loss, which was far beyond his previous conception, he experienced a certain satisfaction in finding his position no worse materially than that of many of his fellow workers.  They were ruined like himself; they must begin their life afresh—­but then!  Ah! there was still that terrible difference.  He drew his breath quickly, and read on.  Suddenly he stopped, transfixed by a later paragraph.  For an instant he failed to grasp its full significance.  Then he read it again, the words imprinting themselves on his senses with a slow deliberation that seemed to him as passionless as Scranton’s utterances on that fateful night.

“The loss of life, it is now feared, is much greater than at first imagined.  To the list that has been already published we must add the name of James Farendell, the energetic contractor so well known to our citizens, who was missing the morning after the fire.  His calcined remains were found this afternoon in the warped and twisted iron shell of his counting-house, the wooden frame having been reduced to charcoal in the intense heat.  The unfortunate man seems to have gone there to remove his books and papers,—­as was evidenced by the iron safe being found open,—­but to have been caught and imprisoned in the building through the heat causing the metal sheathing to hermetically seal the doors and windows.  He was seen by some neighbors to