"There couldn't be two answers to that. I promised."

"And you've kept your promise faithfully. You've stood by."

"That's all I have done, though," grumbled the old servant morosely. His troubled gaze sought hers. "I've just—stood by."

"Well, you couldn't very well do more. I think it is greatly to your credit that you didn't leave the house long ago."

"I've been tempted often enough, Miss Ocky, but there's been the thought in the back of my head that some day I might really be able to help Miss Lucy in an hour of need." His hands closed nervously. "But for that I'd have left, no fear! I've stood so much from him that now I hate him! Do you know, Miss Ocky," his voice dropped to awed confession, "when he was so sick of pneumonia awhile back I just hoped and hoped and hoped our troubles were near an end!"

"It would have been more practical to have left a window open on him, but I suppose the nurse would have stopped that." Miss Ocky's voice was an amused drawl. "Did you try prayer, Bates?"

"Prayer! Good gracious, no, Miss Ocky!"

"It's effective sometimes." She seemed to muse. "Of course, if you were only practiced in witchcraft you could make a wax image of him and then stick pins in it until he curled up and died—"

"Good gracious, Miss Ocky, but you've brought back some terrible ideas from those foreign parts!" He was smiling, now, to show that he had caught her mood and understood she was poking fun at him. The ceremony of the blowing off of steam was nearly concluded. "If you ask me, I don't believe that even witchcraft could hurt Simon Varr. It was only the other day I heard him tell Miss Lucy that he'd increased his life insurance and that the doctor had told him he was good for a century-mark."

"Humph!" There was about her the air of one whose hopes have just been rudely dashed. Then her face brightened and she added with determined cheerfulness. "Never mind, Bates—you'd be amazed if you knew how often doctors are wrong!"

"I hope you're right, Miss Ocky!"

"Suppose we drop the subject for the time. If you will look in the sitting-room you'll find a book on the table called 'The Court of the Borgias.' Bring it to me, please. I think a little quiet reading will settle my thoughts after our conversation."

He went off smiling to get the volume, and presently returned with it. He lingered to produce a match for the cigarette she took from a stand beside her.

"Thank you for listening to me, Miss Ocky."

"And thank you, Bates, for telling me what you did about father. I am glad he had confidence in my ability to take care of myself, and that he wasn't worrying over me when he had so much else to think about."

"I wish Simon Varr was more like him!" said Bates.

She made no reply to that, and he withdrew in his noiseless fashion. She did not immediately dip into the sedative history of the Borgias, but remained looking at the corner around which he had vanished with something akin to speculative interest. She was pondering the old man's revelation of his hatred for Varr and the curious glint she had caught in his eye at dinner the night before. It would be amusing, she thought, if Bates instead of handing Simon the carving-knife should sometime so far forget himself as to slip it between his master's shoulders.

Amusing was the word she used to herself; perhaps, as the butler had suggested, she had brought home some terrible ideas from the East—ideas about Kismet and fatalism and the cheapness of human life in comparison to human good. Wrong ideas, from the point of view of the queer, drab, cramped and hypocritical Occidental mind.

She contemplated the Occidental mind briefly, then dismissed it as a negligible quantity and settled to her book.

VI: An Aunt in Need

It was very nearly dinner-time before Copley Varr came back from his talk with Sheila Graham. In deference to a hint from her that the course of true love could not run smooth that afternoon in the vicinity of her father, they had taken a long walk over the hills along quiet country roads where hands could touch unseen by alien eyes. They were happy, but rather nervously so, with something of the nervousness of a young colt about to kick over the traces for the first time and who is a little uncertain about the consequences.

One bit of their afternoon was devoted to a ramble around the grounds of a small, vacant house, whose exterior they viewed and discussed from every possible angle. It stood in the center of a wooded ten-acre tract, a long mile by winding road from Simon Varr's house but not a quarter of that distance from it as a plane flies. It was situated, in fact, at the bottom of the very hill on which Simon's home flaunted its greater magnificence, and it had once formed part of the property until severed from it by the elder Copley's will.

They tried the front and back door, but finding them quite naturally locked they made no further effort to effect an entrance. They contented themselves with strolling around it once again, admiring its shingles that were weather-beaten to a silvery gray, enthusing over the quaintly-gabled windows of its upper story, calling each other's attention to its palpable solidity of structure.

"A few hundred dollars spent on these grounds!" cried Sheila, her cheeks flushed, her blue eyes shining. "Coppie, isn't it a love of a place? Did you ever in your life see a nicer?"

Coppie admitted freely that he never had.

It was for reasons directly connected with this desirable country property that he sought audience of his aunt immediately upon his return home. She was not to be found anywhere downstairs, and since his impatience did not welcome the idea of waiting for a fortuitous opportunity to chat with her in private, he took the stairs three at a time and rapped eagerly on the door of her bedroom.

This was presently opened to him by a tall, bony, angular woman of fifty-odd who regarded him not altogether favorably through steel-rimmed spectacles. This was Janet Mackay, whom the prosaic-minded would have designated a lady's-maid, but who had risen from that humble position to be no less than Chancellor of State to her sovereign majesty, Miss Ocky. The two women had shared the ups-and-downs, the sunshine and shadow, of that mystic, colorful Orient through whose extent the restless curiosity of the younger had led them to and fro. Out there the line between mistress and servant had inevitably been supplanted by the bond of companionship; but when they returned to the more humdrum civilization of the western world, it was Janet whose dour Scotch rectitude had re-established the distinction. She took her meals with old Bates at a little table in the butlery, found her chief relaxation in the one motion-picture house that Hambleton boasted, and for the rest, "kept herself to herself."

"Hello, Janet!" he greeted her. "Is my aunt in there? Ask her if I can come in and speak to her."

The woman drew aside in the doorway as Miss Ocky answered for herself.

"That you, Copley? Come in. I'm out on the veranda. Janet, you needn't wait."

Miss Ocky's bedroom, like all the others on the upper floor, had a small private balcony outside its tall French windows that made a pleasant place to draw a comfortable chair in the late afternoon or the cool of the evening. She was sitting there now and called to him to bring a chair for himself, but he preferred to lounge against the heavy wooden rail of the balcony.

"Well, Romeo! I expect affairs have been marching with you and Juliet or you wouldn't be hunting me up so promptly."

"See here, Aunt Ocky, I'm just tickled pink and all that, but are you sure you ought to have done it?"

"Suggested the elopement?"

"N-no, of course not. That's all right. That's lovely. We are going to take your advice and grab our happiness. What I'm fussing about is the house business."

"Yes, you'd find something to fuss about, wouldn't you! I didn't encounter any such obstinacy in Sheila, but women are much more practical than men in every respect. When I told her I owned that particular property and proposed to settle it on you jointly as a wedding-gift, she yelped with joy. It's true that after that she began to make polite gestures of remonstrance, but the yelp came first by a good, wide margin! I'm glad one of you has some common-sense."

"I'm just as grateful as I can be, but—"

"Really, Copley, you're a downright nuisance. Let me tell you something, my child. I've a great deal more money than your mother or you or any one else around here has any idea of. I've made investments in my time that would have turned a banker's hair gray, and never one of them but brought me huge returns. That property is of negligible value to me—how negligible you don't know—and yet it will be very valuable to you and Sheila as a haven of security that you can call your own. As a rich aunt, I have every legal and moral and ethical right to give it to you—and as a poor but deserving nephew, it is your cue to say 'Thank you' and accept."

"You're a brick, Aunt Ocky," said the young man soberly, for the second time that afternoon. "Sheila spoke of a check for a thousand—"

"For your honeymoon. If you don't splurge too hard, there'll be some of it left for initial expenses."

"You bet there will." He drew a long breath. "Thank you, Aunt Ocky," he said obediently. "I accept. But, look here—there'll be a holy row when my father hears what you've done. He'll want your head on a charger!"

"Better men than he have wanted that—and it's still neatly articulated to the end of my spinal column!" She gave a low, reminiscent chuckle. "There was a Chinese general, once, whom it was my privilege to annoy, and he went so far as to put quite a flattering price on it. He lost his own! Shall I tell you the story?"

He eagerly assented, and the gory narrative of the unlucky Chinese head-hunter occupied them until dinner was announced.

It was scarcely to be wondered at that Copley was exuberantly cheerful during the meal. His aunt might really have succeeded in her wish to graft a bit of her nerve on to his backbone, for he felt a new sense of self-reliance and resolution. Once married to Sheila, and with the immediate future provided for by the generosity of Miss Ocky, he had no doubt of his ability to pluck a pearl necklace from the world that was his oyster! He knew quite a bit about the tanning business, a knowledge acquired casually during summer vacations, and he also knew—from Sheila—something of Graham's disappointed ambitions in respect to a partnership, if his prospective father-in-law elected to seek his fortune in another field, there was no reason why he shouldn't hitch his wagon to Graham's star as Graham had once hitched his to Varr's. The golden sun of finance was rising in the East for him, and he and Sheila, hand in hand, would walk into the dawn—

So ran his thoughts, and between them he kept up a flow of badinage with Ocky, rallied his quiet mother into some show of life, and even directed a few flippancies at the glum figure which graced the head of the table. The tanner was taciturn, abstracted, and the only show of emotion registered by his wooden countenance was a flash of uneasiness when Copley made some casual reference to Leslie Sherwood. Miss Ocky did not miss that, and again she wondered what lay behind.

His son's airiness of manner distinctly jarred on Simon. A young man just bereft of his allowance and under orders to renounce his lady-love had no right to act like that. It wasn't natural—or else he had something up his youthful sleeve. Humph. That might bear looking into!

"What are you going to do this evening, Copley?" he demanded, as he returned the quill toothpick to his pocket and rose from table.

"Nothing special, sir. Read a while and turn in early."

"I'm going to be busy with some work for an hour or so. I wish you would come to my study at nine. Want to talk to you."

Copley's heart sank as he nodded acquiescence. Then it rose again, for his eyes had strayed across to Miss Ocky and the sight of his powerful ally braced his courage—just as Simon, the day before, had gained fresh confidence from the glimpse of a cabbage. Nothing could harm him while Aunt Ocky held up his arm!

Punctually at nine o'clock he passed through the living-room on his way to the appointment, and paused for a word with Ocky, who was reading by the lamp in the center of the room. She had checked him with a gesture.

"What does he want to see you about?"

"I don't know. Just a snappy laying down of the laws of the Medes and the Persians, I expect."

"Well, don't quarrel with him!"

"You mean—he's my father, after all? Right. It takes two to make a quarrel anyway."

"The most ridiculous aphorism ever coined! I've made lots of them myself, single-handed. And it was policy, not filial respect, that dictated my caution. If you quarrel, you'll lose your temper; if you lose your temper, you may let something slip that will reveal your plans."

"Yours is the sapience of the serpent! But what could he do if he did know the truth? We're both of age."

"Just the same, it's a good generalship to avoid risks. I have learned to leave little to chance."

"Aunt Ocky, will you come and live with us when we are really settled? I've an idea I could profit a lot if I sat at your knees for a while!"

"I wish I could accept your invitation," Miss Ocky answered gravely. Her eyes left his face and seemed to shield her thoughts behind a film of blankness. "I'm afraid I have other—plans," she added quietly. "It's after nine—don't get the habit of unpunctuality."

He knocked on the study door at the end of the room, and closed it after him when he had entered in response to a gruff command.

For some little time Miss Ocky tried to center her thoughts on her book, lifting her head to listen now and again as she paused in her reading to cut pages with her two-edged souvenir of Teheran. The conversation in the study appeared to be flowing along smoothly. She could not catch any words, nor did she try to; a shrewd listener can glean a good deal merely by interpreting the vocal tones of the different speakers. Her ear told her that Simon was certainly laying down the law but with no more than his usual acidity, and that his son was pleading his cause patiently and without acrimony. It was natural enough that he should hope up to the eleventh hour for a favorable change in his father's attitude, a foolish hope but a pardonable one—

Abruptly, Miss Ocky's ear cocked itself to a more alert angle. The voices in the study had suddenly altered. Simon had said something in his usual dictatorial accents, and Copley, instead of the soft answer that turneth away wrath, had snapped a crisp rejoinder in louder tones than any he had yet used. For a minute the two men were speaking at once, discharging verbal salvos at point-blank range. Miss Ocky shrugged her shoulders and smiled rather scornfully to herself. She was not surprised. Lucy had told her of Copley's youthful flashes of temper, which still persisted, though he had learned in some measure to control them.

She was trying to guess the probable outcome of the battle of words when her thoughts were interrupted from another quarter. The bell of the front door had rung violently, and Bates hurried from the pantry and along the hallway to answer it. Miss Ocky wondered who in the world could be calling at such an hour.

She knew in a moment. There was the briefest of parleys with the butler, and then, through the door of the living-room, she saw two men hurry rearward through the hall in the direction of the study. Evidently they proposed to present themselves before Varr without the formality of announcing themselves through Bates.

The first of the two she recognized instantly—it was Graham, the manager of the tannery, whom she had met several times. And he was Sheila's father! An awkward occasion for him to appear! The second man she did not know at all. He was smaller and slighter than Graham, a pale, anaemic creature. He lagged behind his companion, and as the latter kept a grip on his arm as they proceeded, he gave the effect of a lamb going reluctantly to the sacrifice.

Graham's face had been deeply flushed—so much she had had time to note as he swept past the open door. She heard him knock at the study—from sheer force of habit, no doubt, as he could not have waited for a summons to enter before flinging back the door. His voice carried clear to Miss Ocky's ear as he swiftly took up some remark he had caught from within.

"That will do, young man! I can fight my own battles with no help from you—!"

Obviously, events were marching to a proper row. Miss Ocky had no objection to rows when she could participate in them, but to sit by and listen to others enjoying themselves was merely boresome. She put her book on the table, marking her place with the Persian dagger, rose and left the room. The angry voices from the study followed her upstairs as she sought the quiet of her own room.

Here she found Janet Mackay, seated in a corner with a dozen new handkerchiefs of linen that she was adorning with exquisitely embroidered initials. She looked up, but continued her work without speaking.

"Hello, Janet. Why aren't you at the movies this evening?"

"They're showing a gripping picture of purple passion," replied Miss Mackay succinctly. She snipped a thread, deftly inserted fresh thread in her needle and added casually, "It's a small world."

This was a sample of Janet's cautious, crab-like approach to some topic of interest. Miss Ocky recognized it and soon had encouraged her to persevere.

"A great thought, Janet, but scarcely a new one. What brought it to your mind?"

"A piece of news that Bates was telling me over our supper. He got it this afternoon from the postman. Did ye know that old Simon's kitchen garden had been looted the other night?"

"No."

"It was. The fellow took a few tomatoes and did a wee bit damage with his big feet. Old Simon found out who it was, and he had him arrested."

"Humph. He would. The man was probably hungry, poor devil."

"Aye; so they're saying in the town. No matter. Old Simon appeared against him this morning in court and they sent him to the lock-up for thirty days."

"Ninety meals! It might be worse. Who was it?"

"A young fellow named Charlie Maxon."

"Charlie Maxon! Well, he'll be no loss to the community for a month!"

"Aye?" Janet looked up sharply from her work. "Ye know him?"

"He's one of the leaders of the strike. I've spoken with him once or twice. A bad egg, I should think."

"Aye, and his parents before him," said Janet Mackay. "They used to live around the corner from me in Aberdeen. I can remember Charlie as a bairn, and even then he was always into mischief. He's no whit better now."

"And he turns up again in this little out-of-the-way place in America! I see now why you say the world's a small one. Queer, but it's the way things sometimes happen. Are you sure it's the same?"

"Aye. Three times I've seen him in town and thought his face familiar, he looks so like his father. When Bates spoke his name, I knew."

"Well, I take it you won't remind him of the old times in bonnie Scotland!"

"No fear!" said the older woman promptly. Then she looked keenly at her mistress. "Aren't ye up early to-night?"

"Simon is having a row with Copley in the study." Miss Ocky shrugged her shoulders and made a grimace. "I didn't care to listen any longer."

"He's having a row with the boy, is he?" Janet regarded her work critically and bit off a thread neatly. "The old deevil! I'm glad I have been with you all this time, Miss Ocky, and not around that 'un! I've heard a few things about him from Bates." She threaded another needle with deft fingers. "He's a rare curmudgeon. D'ye suppose he'll go on like this to the end of his days?"

"Can you teach an old dog new tricks?" asked Miss Ocky contemptuously. "You should know better at your age, Janet." She got up and strolled out on the balcony to see the brilliant stars in a sky of velvet blackness. "Quarter past ten already. I shan't need you for anything to-night. If you insist on ruining your eyes with that work any longer, go off to your own room and let me get to bed!"



VII: Out of the Past

When the curtain rose on the scene of that interview between the tanner and his son, Simon was discovered at his desk laboriously making entries in his small, cramped handwriting in the red notebook that held so many of his secrets. He did not look up until he had completed the memorandum which engaged him; when he swung his chair around he still held the closed book in his hand and occasionally pounded his knee with it when he wished to emphasize some point in the ensuing conversation.

He had his notions of good generalship no less than his shrewd sister-in-law, and he did not make the mistake of pitching his prefatory remarks on a note of hostility. He was fishing for information. He hoped to get a clue to the reason for Copley's sudden elevation of spirit, if a reason really existed.

"I was a little pressed for ready money at the beginning of the month and did not see my way to making the usual deposit to your account," he began, utterly indifferent, so he were not caught, that he was being deliberately untruthful. "Hope it didn't embarrass you. Things are easier, now, and I will attend to the matter to-morrow morning."

"Why—why, thank you, sir!" This was so unexpected that the young man was as bewildered as if a mine had exploded at his feet. "That is very good of you. I had no idea you were—were strapped." He flushed. "As a matter of fact, I thought—I thought—"

"Go on. What did you think?"

"Well, sir, I thought you were just giving me a reminder of my absolute dependence on you. I've been a pretty useless animal, I know."

"Why the past tense? Are you a useful animal now?"

"N-no, sir. I guess it would be exaggerating the facts if I claimed that! But my intentions are good." Simon's lips lifted. "I want to get busy at something useful right away."

"Humph. You're just out of college and the general idea has been that you would take a post-graduate course in the Columbia Law School; that is your mother's wish. The tannery, if I may so express it, has always been a stench in her nostrils. She is not the first woman to quarrel with the honest source of her bread-and-butter." He stared at his son from beneath level brows. "Well? Have plans changed?"

"I want to make money, sir, and it would be years before I could hope to do that at the Bar."

"I will undertake to continue your allowance until you have established yourself."

"Thank you, father, but it's not the same thing. I want to stand on my own feet—and as soon as possible."

"Why?"

"Because I wish—I intend—to marry Sheila Graham."

"You shan't do it!"

It was the drop of the handkerchief; steel rang upon steel, and no buttons tipped their foils. It was careful fencing at first, thrust and parry, parry and thrust, until Simon lost patience at length and put all his viciousness into one deadly lunge.

"Now, see here, Copley! If you persist in disregarding my wishes let me tell you what will happen; I will throw Billy Graham out of his job and I'll use every scrap of influence I possess to keep him from getting another! Put that in your pipe and smoke it!" The notebook slapped on his knee. "Ruin your own prospects if you're fool enough to do it; ruin Sheila's, if she's fool enough to let you; but stop there! Maybe she'll help you to stop when she knows that your stubbornness and hers will be a knife in her father's back! She will know, too, for you can't go ahead in common decency without telling her what it will mean to him!" The tanner leaned forward, an ugly light of triumph in his eyes, raised his free hand and slowly clenched his fist. "I've got—you—right—there!"

"Father!" The bitterest shame in the world, the shame of a son for his father, was in that cry. The young man rose from his chair and stood looking at Simon Varr almost incredulously. "You couldn't do that! You couldn't do anything so contemptible! Do what you please to me, but take back that threat before I—I despise you!"

"Despise me? You! Ha! I'll take back nothing, and I'll use my advantage to its full extent. Mark that! I've said you shan't marry Sheila Graham—and what I say goes!"

"Not any longer with me!" flared his son at white heat. For a full minute they indulged in a furious exchange of half-incoherent insults before Copley's voice rose clear above his father's. "I will marry Sheila as soon as she'll have me, and I warn you to keep your hands off Graham!"

It was then that the study door was flung open and a thick, heavy voice cut through their abusive volleys.

"That will do, young man! I can fight my own battles with no help from you!"

Graham came into the study, dragging with him the shrinking figure of the clerk, Langhorn. His intrusion was startling enough, but there was still a deeper significance in the slight lurch that the manager gave as he halted, glowering, before Simon Varr. His flushed face and blurred utterance contributed their testimony to a fact that was ominous in itself; he had been drinking, drinking heavily, though he was notably abstemious by habit. Varr got hastily to his feet, so threatening was his manager's attitude.

"What do you want here?" he demanded curtly, though he knew well enough what Langhorn's presence betokened. "What do you mean by bursting in like that? Are you drunk?"

Possibly the crisp question went far to sober Graham, who was plainly trying to shake off the effect of his potations as if the sense of the undignified figure he was cutting was just beginning to filter into his confused brain. He straightened up, steadied himself.

"I want a talk with you, Mr. Varr. It's overdue, I think. I've been waiting for you to make a move in a certain direction, and it seems I've been fooling myself nicely." He spoke slowly. "More than a score of years I've worked for you, Mr. Varr, and not you nor any man can say I haven't done well by you and the business. I'm entitled to something more than the salary of a hired hand—Mr. Bolt agrees with me there—and I've been hoping that you would give me some chance to invest my savings in a business I've grown up with. I've earned the right—"

"Stop pinning medals on yourself and come to the point!"

"I've been wondering if maybe you didn't understand how I felt and if I oughtn't to speak straight out, but yesterday afternoon this man, Langhorn, told me he had heard you and Mr. Bolt discussing me. He told me you said you would never give me a partnership, that—that you were going to throw me out so I would go to Rochester, taking Sheila with me! It—it nearly knocked me off my feet, Mr. Varr; it's no wonder I took a drink or so too much this evening. Now I've brought this man here so you can say if he told me the truth—or so you can call him a liar to his face."

"You needn't have gone to that trouble!" snarled Simon, purple with rage. "He's a sneaking hound, but he told you the truth this time, and I'd have told you all you wanted to know without your bringing him along!"

"Then—it's true? You're going to let me out after all these years?"

"Yes!" The word was fairly shouted. From temper and sheer exasperation, Simon was in a towering passion. He flung the notebook he was holding onto his desk, raised both hands above his head and shook them in a frenzy at the two men. "Yes! And you can start going by getting out of here, now, and taking your eavesdropping pal with you! Get out—and don't either of you ever come back!"

Langhorn wriggled free and stepped out into the hall. Graham did not leave without a parting shot—directed via Copley, who had been a silent witness of the scene.

"This is your fault more than any one else's," he said, "but I know you didn't mean it." He glanced expressively at Varr and back again. "I hope you're proud of your father!" he added dryly, and followed the departing clerk from the house.

There was a brief silence in the study for a moment or two after the thud of the closing front door came to their ears. Then Copley made to leave the room, unchecked by his father, who stood watching him in sullen mood. The young man paused on the threshold and turned to face his father.

"So," he said evenly, "you were threatening me with a course of action that you had already determined on! Isn't that so?"

A wave of color suffused Varr's face and answered him.

"Come back here!" snapped Simon. "I've not finished with you!"

"Yes, you have, father," said Copley. "Just that!"

White to his lips, he turned and left the room. Varr listened to his retreating steps and to a second closing of the front door as he went out of the house into the dark night.

Alone, Varr sank into the chair before his desk and tried to take stock of his position. For once, it seemed, he had not only failed to have his own way but had definitely come out at the short end of the horn. It would be difficult to replace Graham—he could admit that to himself. It would be impossible to replace Copley—! He did not try to deceive himself with false hopes in that connection; there had been a finality in his son's last utterance that rang true.

What curse had come upon him? What malign fate had led Graham there that evening at the very moment when he could least afford to have his trickery revealed to his son? Why was everything going wrong?

The solace of tobacco was denied him, since he did not smoke. His shaken nerves cried for some attention, and the faint odor of whisky that still lingered in the room recalled him to Graham's resource. He stepped to the door and called Bates, who came from the rear of the house.

"Fetch me a glass, and that decanter of Bourbon."

The butler returned in a minute with a tray. He placed it on a small table near the desk and looked inquiringly at Simon.

"Will you wish anything else, sir?"

"No. Go to bed."

"Thank you, sir. Everything is closed but the front door. Mr. Copley is still out. Good night, sir."

Varr poured himself a stiff three fingers and tossed it off at a gulp, making a wry face as the fiery liquor stung his unaccustomed throat. Otherwise the effect was excellent. He decanted another large drink and was about to take a sip of it when his eyes, above the glass, chanced to rest on a piece of brown paper in a pigeonhole of his desk.

Abruptly, he put down his drink, drew the paper out, and read the last lines of the message so curiously received.

"Take heed to thy ways and mend them, lest thou be destroyed by the thunderbolts of wrath!"

Bah! He flung the paper back into its hole, yet continued to eye it with a feeling of uneasiness that required another swallow of whisky to allay. Ah—that was better! He took a second, and new life and courage flowed into him with the liquor.

He threw back his head and squared his shoulders defiantly. Blast them—blast them one and all, root and branch! Graham—Copley—this lunatic Monk—! Threaten him, would they? Let 'em look out for themselves—he'd show 'em!

He raised his clenched fist preparatory to bringing it down with a crash upon the desk. It did not fall; it stayed aloft while a sudden fear leaped into his eyes. He bent forward, his head turned sideways, his ears straining to catch a sound that had come to them from a distance.

A siren was blowing—the siren whose raucous wail gave warning to the people of Hambleton when fire threatened their homes. Tensely, Simon counted the long blasts. One—two—three! A short pause. One—two—three!

Thirty-three! The tannery!

He sprang erect. Instinct born of habit impelled him to slam down the roll-top cover of his desk before he rushed from the room and down the hall. He snatched his soft hat from a rack as he reached with his other hand for the heavy latch of the front door.

Two minutes later he was guiding his light car down the curving hillside road, driving fast but carefully. He made such good time that he arrived at the scene of the fire several minutes before the local Fire Department had assembled its hats, its equipment and itself, and had gotten its apparatus to the field of action.

A small mob of men, women and delighted children was gathered in the open space before the office building and the gate. They were milling about in excited groups, eager enough to lend a hand but hopelessly confused without the guidance of a leader. Varr thrust through them impatiently, opened the door—that the watchman had thoughtfully left unbarred—and hurried through the building to the rear premises.

A column of black smoke shot with leaping crimson flames told him where to direct his swift steps. The fire, evidently, was confined for the moment to one, or possibly two, of the small outbuildings. These were used largely for storage purposes; they were crammed full of packing cases, extra carboys of acids and loose heaps of bark—a raft of stuff that was highly combustible. A glance told Simon that they were doomed.

Through a haze of greasy smoke he glimpsed an active figure—the only human being in sight except himself—and he hastened to its side. It was Fay, the night-watchman, a powerful, stocky man who clearly did not share the tanner's pessimistic conviction. He had ransacked the premises for every hand fire-extinguisher he could find, had brought them to the burning buildings and, with fine optimism, was now spraying their contents on the edges of the blaze.

"Stop wasting that stuff!" commanded Varr. "Nothing to be done here! All we can do is try to save the rest of the outfit."

The watchman withdrew, reluctantly at first but then with a succession of leaps and bounds as a muffled explosion from the interior of the building marked the passing of some overheated container. He halted at a safe distance, wiping his smoke-grimed face, until Varr rejoined him. A faint cheer from beyond the boundary fence carried to them over the roar of the blaze.

"Guess that's the Fire Department," grunted Fay. "About time they turned up!"

"There's oil in that fire!" snapped the tanner, gazing at the black smoke. "Where'd it come from?"

"Two five-gallon tins of it, brought from D building, spilled on the floor and a match chucked into it. I seen them lying on their side in there at the start of it."

"Humph. Brought from D building, eh? Then there's no doubt of this being the work of an incendiary!"

"Doubt? Huh! I'll tell the world there ain't no doubt! I seen the feller that did it!"

"Ah! Could you recognize him? Who was it? Why in thunder didn't you grab him? Where'd he get to?"

Before Fay could even begin to sort out these questions and try to answer the easier ones, their quick conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a resplendent figure at their elbows. A short, stout man was Gus Wimpelheimer, grocer and butcher by profession and in his lighter moments Chief of the Hambleton Fire Department. His round little body was now quivering with pleased excitement.

"Evening, gentlemen!" he greeted them politely. He glanced at the fire and wrinkled an expert nose. "Kerosene!" he pronounced.

"The thought had occurred to us," retorted Simon. Marshal Wimpelheimer trotted briskly toward the fire for a better view, and trotted briskly back again as another carboy let go.

"Bad business," he reported cheerfully. "Nasty wind springing up," he added happily. "Blowing straight for the other buildings, too!" He put a little whistle to his lips and its squeaky notes brought two satellites of the main luminary. "Hustle out those chemicals and get 'em to work on the blaze. Rout out all the buckets you can find, and send for more. Call on that crowd out there for volunteers and get a chain started from the stream to these other buildings. Douse 'em—douse 'em good! Don't stop till I tell you to. Fay! You'll know where there are any ladders; fetch them out!"

"Yes, Chief!" came the admiring chorus, and the men sprang off to execute his orders. He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction and turned brightly to the tanner.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Varr," he said indulgently. "We'll handle this little affair for you!"

Worry was not exactly Varr's predominant emotion. There was small reason to fear that the remainder of the buildings would not be kept intact, and there was ample insurance on the property, including contents. The blaze could cause him inconvenience when business was resumed, that was all.

The real significance of the affair lay in the fact that the fire had been of incendiary origin. His face was stormy as he contemplated that angle of the situation. Who was his enemy? Who had made this second determined effort to burn the tannery? Second, for he could no longer consider the first an accident in the light of this new attempt. In his mind he had always held the thought that Charlie Maxon might have been the perpetrator of the earlier outrage, but Maxon was now in jail and could not be guilty of this. Had he a confederate? Was this fire a token of resentment on the part of his friends for the way he had been treated?

He fumed with angry impotence. How would he fight this unseen, unknown foe? He could take his suspicions to Steiner—but what could that futile fellow do? He would fiddle around and scratch his head and mumble inanities! Varr gritted his teeth in helpless rage as he watched the men fighting their slow but certain battle to victory over the flames.

The crowd outside the premises speedily discovered that this drama was hidden from them by the high fence, and they were forbidden to pass the guard stationed at the office door by the ubiquitous Wimpelheimer. The nimbler-witted among them reflected that they might obtain a good view of the proceedings from the rising ground to the left of the tannery, and they drifted there by twos and threes until quite a respectable number of people were sprinkled over the field through which the shortcut ran to Simon's house. From this vantage point they could look down into the tannery and watch the performance to their hearts' content.

A little to one side of the crowd stood a woman alone, her gaze turned steadily on the burning buildings. Several passers-by spoke to her by name, and she answered them mechanically without turning her head. Finally, one of these greetings was overheard by a man who was standing a few yards distant; he turned sharply to look at the woman addressed, then approached her rather hesitatingly. He took off his hat and bowed.

"I beg pardon," he said pleasantly. "Is this Miss Copley?"

"Yes." Miss Ocky peered at him through the dark, then gave a little exclamation. "Leslie Sherwood!"

"Correct. How are you, Ocky? It seems like a lifetime since I last saw you."

"Twenty-odd years. I heard you were back for the first time since you—since you left the parent nest!"

"Yes," answered Sherwood quietly. Then he added casually—too casually to be convincing to her sharp intuitions—"How is Lucy?"

"She is—oh, pretty well."

"Er—happy, and all that sort of thing?"

"As happy as she could expect to be. She married Simon Varr, you know."

"Yes—I know." He disregarded her sarcastic implication. "I hear you've been back only a short time yourself. Staying at Lucy's?"

"Staying at Simon's!" corrected Miss Ocky grimly. "I suppose you know that's his beloved tannery a-fire down there?"

"So they tell me. I saw the flames from my house and thought I'd stroll down for the show."

"I was just turning in myself when I heard the siren," said Miss Ocky. "Rather pretty effect, don't you think?"

"Beautiful," agreed Sherwood. He surveyed the scene of the fire critically. "Beautiful—only I'm afraid they are going to save most of the buildings."

"Eh? What's that?" cried Miss Ocky sharply. Then she gave a chuckle. "Did you say 'afraid'?"

"Are you a friend of Simon's?"

"I detest the creature," she answered promptly. "And you?"

"It would afford me great pleasure," stated Sherwood calmly, "if that were Simon's funeral pyre."

Miss Ocky pursed her lips in a soft, almost inaudible whistle. She was thinking back to the expression on her brother-in-law's face when this man's name was mentioned. Simon had been afraid! And here was Leslie Sherwood expressing, not fear, but—but what?

"Any one would think you hated the poor man," she suggested at length.

"That," said Mr. Sherwood, "exactly expresses my feeling toward him."

"But—but, Leslie—" Miss Ocky was groping for the truth back of all this—"I don't understand! Why do you hate a man you haven't even seen for over twenty years?"

"Some hates have very lasting qualities, Ocky. They endure for ever and a day."

"Then—whatever it was—happened before you left here?"

"Yes. Simon came between me and something that I wanted—and did it in a way that made a mortal enemy of me. Sounds theatrical, doesn't it? But it's true. He contrived at the same time to cause the trouble between me and my father that has kept me from returning to Hambleton until now, when the old gentleman has ended with worldly cares."

"I wish you'd tell me the whole story in words of one syllable," begged Miss Ocky. "It's not that I'm just curious. I'm trying to learn all that I can about Simon. He interests me as a—as a specimen."

"I would hardly have told you as much if I weren't willing to tell you all. I'm puzzling over a problem that might be simplified by a woman's wit. We can't talk here, though. Too public."

"Suppose you escort me home. I've a torch, and I'm going up this short-cut. We can chat on the way." She glanced downhill. "This excitement is about over; shall we start?"

"Whenever you please."

They were turning away side-by-side when a fitful gust of wind swept up to them from the direction of the sinking flames. There is only one thing more malodorous than a tannery, and that is a burning tannery. Miss Ocky choked.

"Pwhew!" she gasped. "It smells like—like—"

"Like the soul of Simon Varr," supplied Sherwood promptly.



VIII: Two Victims of Theft

Varr remained at the tannery until the last dying ember had been extinguished. Not till then did Marshal August Wimpelheimer come gayly up to him, his regalia a trifle the worse for wear and his breath coming a little short from his exertions but his expression that of one who has been hugely enjoying himself. He saluted with a flourish.

"All over, Mr. Varr! I told you we'd handle it. I'm sorry we couldn't save those first two buildings, but they had too much of a start. Full of that inflammable stuff and with a breeze like this blowing sparks as big as my helmet"—the article of attire referred to was nearly as large as himself—"We were lucky to get control—"

"Have you seen anything of Fay about?"

"Your watchman? Yes, sir, he was in the thick of everything! I'd like to add him to my Department. But the boys all did splendidly—smoke-eaters, Mr. Varr, every mother's son of 'em! I hope you noticed, sir, that when it came to volunteers for the bucket-gang a lot of your workmen stepped up. They forgot about the strike and pitched in with both hands! It shows there's a heap of good in human nature."

"It shows they know which side their bread is buttered!" grunted the tanner. "How would they get their jobs back if they let the whole outfit burn? Eh?"

The Fire Marshal flushed, but the grocer bit back the words that trembled on his lips. Little Wimpy had gallantry to spare when it came to facing fire, which is a clean foe and a clean fighter, but his courage stopped there. Varr owned his store, Varr held a chattel mortgage on his fixtures—and there were the little Wimpies to be thought of!

"Good night, sir!" he said, and went sadly home.

Simon Varr joined the stragglers who were leaving by way of the hall through the office building, but he did not go with them as far as the exit. He ascended the creaky stairs, went into his office and snapped on the electric light. He had seen nothing of Fay, but he confidently expected the watchman to seek him out as soon as possible.

In this he was not disappointed. The man had only paused to remove some of the traces of his activities before presenting himself for Simon's inquisition.

"Well, Fay, what can you tell me about this? Where were you when you discovered the fire?"

"I was making my second round at twenty-five minutes to eleven. You'll remember, sir, you left orders that I should make another trip about the premises five minutes after my regular round, which was ten-thirty in this case. That was a good idea, sir, if you'll let me say so; it certainly led to my seeing the fire right after it started."

"That scoundrelly fire bug was watching you, depend on that!"

"Yes, sir; there's dozens of places he could keep a look-out from, once he got inside. Soon as he saw me finish one round and go out front, he commenced his dirty work."

"You say you caught a glimpse of him?"

"A poor one, sir. I was just quietly passing one of those storage buildings when I saw a flicker of light beneath the doorsill. It was too soon to hear the crackle of burning wood or smell any smoke, but I knew what was up. I pushed open the door. That was when I saw the two oil-tins lying on their sides and the whole floor flooded with the stuff. There was smoke enough, then, sir! That's why I could only get a poor look through it at the feller."

"He was in the building when you saw him?"

"Yes, sir—and out of it again like a deer, by the door at the other end, as soon as he saw me. I couldn't run through the flames, and by the time I'd jumped back and cut around the building, he was lost in the darkness. I swept my torch this way and that, but never a sign of him. I heard him, though," he added significantly.

"Yes? Where?"

"He stumbled over something near the left-hand corner of the yard where the fence runs down to the brook. That tells us what we didn't know before, sir. He doesn't come over the fence, nor under it; he either wades the brook around the end of it, or else scrambles around by way of the bank. Unless I'm all wrong, sir, we'll find his footprints there in the morning."

"We'll find them there now," Varr corrected him curtly. "You have your torch? Come along, then."

He extinguished the light in the office and led the way downstairs and out into the yard. They passed the smoking ruins of the two destroyed buildings and came in a few seconds to the spot described by Fay. Varr took the torch from him and played its beam on the ground near the juncture of fence and brook.

"You're right!" he exclaimed. "Here are footprints—and that piece of wire is what you heard him trip over. Take a close look at those prints, Fay, while I hold the light. Don't muck 'em up with your own dainty feet! Anything noticeable about them?"

The conscientious watchman dropped on his hands and knees and seemed to fairly sniff at the marks like a bloodhound.

"No, sir," he reported regretfully. "They're just footprints."

Varr corroborated the truth of this when he bent to make his own examination. The prints were sharp and distinct, but their very clearness only added to the general obscurity. They were large and clumsy, rude of outline, and had obviously been made by a pair of heavy shoes such as workmen wear—and they might have been worn by any one of a million workmen! Varr grunted his disgust as he sought in vain for some little mark by which they might be distinguished from two million like them.

"A big man," was the extent of his deductions.

"Yes, sir, that was what he looked like to me. I wish I could have seen his face—though I've a notion he might have been masked."

"Masked!" Varr fell back a step. "Masked?"

"Why—yes, sir. That wouldn't be so unlikely, considering the errand he come on! But I'm not sure—I had just that moment's look at him through a swirl of smoke."

"Could you tell how he was dressed?"

"He was in black, sir. I thought so at first, and the way he got out of sight in the darkness makes it seem likely. What, sir?"

Varr had muttered an oath. A figure dressed in black, with a mask! That was circumstantial enough, the Monk had been busy—launching a thunderbolt of wrath, presumably! Simon's lip curled; Ocky's familiar of the Spanish Inquisition was a pretty scurvy knave if he would stoop to firebrands by night—!

"Fay," he commanded abruptly. "Keep a close tongue in your head about this. I've my reasons for it. Don't tell any one of these footprints until I give you permission. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," replied the watchman dutifully and dolefully. He had rather been looking forward to public kudos and acclaim. "You'll tell Steiner, sir, I suppose?"

"Do as I tell you, and leave the rest to me!" Varr returned sharply. He handed back the borrowed torch, first glancing at his watch by its light. "Only half-past one! I could have sworn I'd been down here the best part of the night. Come along!"

They returned to the office building, Varr leaving a few more directions for increased and unceasing watchfulness as the exhausted Fay dropped into his chair in the front hall. Then Simon betook himself to his car and drove slowly homeward.

His bad temper had largely worn itself out on the various irritations that had kept it jumping, and in sooth the time had come for anger to give way to calculation. There were so many things to be thought of! Enough to make a man's head spin!

The matter of Copley by itself—! He did not know yet just what was back of the boy's angry declaration that his father was "finished" with him. Was he planning to leave home? A nice row there'd be with a wounded mother! And Copley—Simon judged others by himself—would be sure to make the most of his grievance with her over a parental stratagem that had miscued!

The thought of that nasty few minutes in the study reminded him of Graham. Another coil. Jason Bolt would have some bitter comment on the wisdom of firing a useful man with no substitute in sight; Jason had a rough tongue at times for all his good-nature. That would be still another quarrel—and he couldn't fire Jason!

And this blasted Monk, with his anonymous letters and talk of thunderbolts! He must be taken seriously after this night's work. True, there was no definite proof to connect him with the fire but it was too probable a hypothesis to be lightly dismissed. What had he better do to cut that fellow's claws? There was hope, of course, that he had worked off his spleen in firing the tannery, and also that a wholesome fear of being caught and convicted of arson might cool his spirit! Unless he was mad—!

He left his car in the garage and locked the sliding-door behind him with a feeling of relief that the balance of the night was likely to pass without further incident. As he walked from the garage to the house, he remembered the decanter and glass still standing on the study table and welcomed the idea of another bracer before bed. He had earned it.

The darkened house, as he approached it, provided him with a new grievance. Every one asleep! What did they care if the tannery went up in smoke? More than likely they'd be glad!

It was not in him to feel a sense of shame when he presently learned that his assumption of their indifference was unjustified. As he let himself in with his key, a slippered step shuffled from the rear to greet him. It was Bates, sleepy but inquisitive.

"The fire's out. Yes, it was the work of an incendiary. The actual damage is immaterial." Varr's answers were curt. "Every one asleep, I suppose?"

"I expect so, sir. Miss Ocky went down to the fire, but she came home long ago and told us it was under control. Miss Lucy came downstairs and waited until she heard that, then she went to bed. She wanted you to wake her when you came in and tell her all that happened."

"Humph. I'll go up in a few minutes. And—my son?"

"He's not in, sir. I haven't seen him all evening."

"Very well. Go to bed. Leave the door unlatched."

The old butler wished him good night and padded softly up the front stairs. Simon struck a match and went along the darkened hall to his study, where he struck another and lighted the wall-lamp near his desk. It was then he noticed something that caused him to fall back a pace and utter a sharp exclamation. The roll-top cover had been thrust up to its fullest extent—and the same glance showed him that his red-leather notebook, which he distinctly remembered tossing on to the desk, was gone! With a cry of pure rage, he darted to the door of the study.

"Bates!" he shouted. "Bates! Come down here! At once!"

The butler heard, and hurried to obey the urgency in Simon's voice. He found the tanner standing before his desk and examining its rather inadequate lock.

"We've been burgled," announced the victim grimly. "It just needed that to round the night off nicely."

"Burgled! Robbed! Surely not, sir!"

"Don't talk like an idiot! Get your torch. We'd best have a look around, though there's no doubt the dirty devil got what he came for! Where were you while—"

"What is it now?" interrupted a plaintive and sleepy voice from the doorway. "Another fire?"

Varr wheeled toward the speaker and saw Miss Ocky regarding him with wondering eyes. She had slipped on a vivid negligee, a trophy from some Eastern bazaar, and she made a most attractive picture in the soft, kindly light from the lamp as she stood there looking her inquiry at one and the other of the two men. Simon was somehow glad to see her, for much as he disliked her, he admitted her level-headed shrewdness and welcomed the help of another brain in coping with a situation that was rapidly getting beyond him.

"Some one has broken open my desk and taken the notebook in which I keep memoranda of formulas and experiments," he explained gruffly. "I don't miss anything else. It must have been done within the last few hours."

"I see. I thought I detected a note of tragedy in the way you hollered for Bates just now." She eyed the butler reflectively as she drew a silver case from a pocket of the negligee and lighted a cigarette. "Bates—I see you are still dressed! Where have you been for the past few hours?"

"Right in the pantry, Miss Ocky, except when I came out to let you in a while back. I heard nothing, nor no one."

She turned, as if to measure distances with her eye. "Right in the pantry," she repeated. "Fifteen yards—and two closed doors—away. Still, it's queer you heard nothing."

"I was reading a paper, Miss Ocky, and I dozed once or twice."

"Ah. That probably accounts for it. Have you found out yet how he got into the house?" She moved her shoulders slightly as she put the question. "I can feel a draught on the back of my neck, now. Something is open—in the living-room, perhaps. Did you lock up as carefully as usual this evening, Bates? Things were rather upset!"

"That didn't make any difference, Miss Ocky," he protested eagerly. "I had closed everything as usual—I had even started for bed—before the siren blew and I heard Mr. Varr hurrying out to the garage. Nothing was left unlocked."

At the first mention of the living-room, Simon had secured a small torch from a nearby stand. Together, they trooped through the door leading to the parlor, where he flashed the light on the two sets of tall French windows that gave on to a side veranda. They exclaimed in chorus at the sight of one pair ajar.

"That's that," said Miss Ocky. She took the flash from Simon, opened the window wide and turned the light on the planking of the piazza. "Nothing to be seen by this light!" She directed the beam at the fastenings of the window. "Huh! Didn't take much to force this affair! Your defenses are pretty flimsy, Simon!"

"You're not in the heart of Asia, Ocky. We don't go in much for fortifications in this country."

"Well, I could wish you did. I don't want to wake up some night and find a burglar going off with my treasures. What did you say this one took—a notebook?"

"Yes."

"What's the idea? Who wants an old notebook?"

"Exactly what I'm asking myself, Ocky." Simon sent a sideways look at the old butler as if reluctant to speak too openly. "It was full of important data relative to tanning processes. Not much of a loss to me, for I know 'em all by heart—but it might be extremely useful to any one else in the business or—or to any one who might be expecting to go into it—" His voice trailed off as if he were lost in some thought that had just struck him. "Humph!" he grunted.

"What is it?" demanded Ocky alertly.

"Nothing—nothing to be discussed now, anyway. Bates!"

"Sir?" The butler had just finished lighting the lamp on the center table and he glanced at Varr with expressionless face. "Yes, sir?"

"Stop fiddling with that lamp. There's nothing to be done to-night. And look here—I don't want this business mentioned to the other servants or any one else until I have decided just what action I shall take. Understand? Go to bed, then,—and I hope you stay there this time!"

"One moment, Bates." Miss Ocky had moved over to the table and was contemplating it with thoughtful gaze. "Simon—what sort of an implement would have forced that desk of yours? A knife, for instance?"

"Yes, that would have done the trick. It could have been slipped under the top near the lock; a slight pressure would have done the rest."

"I like a lock that is a lock," sniffed Miss Ocky.

"A matter of taste, I suppose. Bates, you know that Persian dagger of mine I've been using here lately for a paper-cutter? When did you see it last?"

"This evening, Miss Ocky."

"Sure?"

"Yes, Miss Ocky. I was straightening up in here just after you went to your room the first time, and I knocked the book you had been reading on to the floor. When I picked it up, the dagger fell out. I knew I'd lost your place and was sorry, but I couldn't do anything to find it again so I just laid the dagger down beside the book—right here." He indicated a perfectly blank spot on the table and looked mystified.

"I came down for the book just before one o'clock—couldn't seem to get to sleep," explained Miss Ocky musingly. "The dagger was not here then—but it didn't occur to me to raise the house about it. I took it for granted there was some simple reason for its being gone, and I didn't stop to look for it, as I was only striking matches to find what I wanted." She made a face. "For all I know, the burglar was right in this room at that very minute!"

"Pity you didn't run on to him," grunted Simon. "What are you suggesting, anyway?"

"I think your burglar came in here and noticed the dagger—he probably had a flash—and decided it was just what he needed in his business! He opened the desk with it, and unless he dropped it around somewhere when he was finished with it, I guess I've been robbed, too."

"Huh. Wasn't valuable, was it?" asked Simon impatiently.

"Well, I don't care about losing it—thanks for your kind and sympathetic interest!" retorted his sister-in-law tartly. "Thank you, Bates, that's all."

"Yes, Miss Ocky." The old man bowed. "Good night, sir," he said, for the third time that night.

"I'll be off, too," said Miss Ocky, moving toward the door, where she lingered for a parting shot. "If I were you, Simon, I'd either have my locks seen to or else have my more valuable possessions nailed down. Good morning!"

She was gone before he could think of an effective retort. He occupied himself briefly in dragging a heavy chair against the broken window, then put out the lamp and went into his study. Bed seemed to make no appeal, though there was a suggestion of weariness in the way he dropped into his chair before the desk. He was mentally tired.

Who had dealt him this latest blow—a shrewder one than he had confessed to Ocky. That notebook full of formulas, the results of a lifetime of experiment and research, would be worth more than a gold mine to a competitor. There were men in the business who would pay handsomely for the picking of Simon Varr's brain! But who had known that, and turned his knowledge to advantage by the crooked way of burglary?

Two names kept bobbing up in the back of his brain. Copley was one; Graham the other. Either might have done it, or they might have entered into an unholy partnership of crime. Both knew the value of the notebook, and both had seen it in his desk that evening. Where had they been since? He had not noticed either of them at the fire; had they been robbing his desk while they knew him safely absent?

No sentiment played any part in these cogitations. He measured the possibility of his son's guilt as coldly as if the young man had been a complete stranger—or an ex-convict. Measured it, perhaps, unconsciously, by his own standards of behavior. He had done things in his time that would have made a self-respecting burglar blush.

There was a third possibility. The Monk. Simon tried to shake off that thought. There was no sense in it. Queer how anything like that masquerader's mischief-making could get under a sensible man's skin—dig its way into his brain until it became an obsession! Suppose he had set fire to the tannery—was that any reason to believe he had proceeded to further activities the same night? There was not a shred of proof connecting him with the burglary.

He yielded to the fascination that the scrap of brown paper was beginning to exercise over him and drew it from the pigeonhole. He opened it and let his eye travel over the illiterate text to the threat at the end that was already known to him by heart: "Take heed to thy ways and mend them, lest thou be destroyed by the thunderbolts of wrath!" Then he started violently in his chair, for he had come upon the very proof he had thought lacking.

Beneath the last line of the message a few words had been scrawled with a blunt, blue crayon and then deeply underscored for emphasis. He stared at them, his face flushing and paling by turns, his lips soundlessly shaping the ill-formed characters.

"Behold, the bolts are loosed!"



IX: Simon Seeks Advice

The discovery that his unknown enemy after first firing the tannery had then rounded off a perfect evening by burglarizing his house threw Simon Varr into a state of mental confusion. Here was a saturnalia of crime condensed into the space of a few hours. And the man's audacity was no less bewildering than his swift efficiency! Who, in this hitherto quiet township of Hambleton, had suddenly developed a brand of vicious courage that nerved him to commit arson and burglary? Simon reviewed an imposing procession of possible suspects until his brain wearied, and his wits, seeking vainly for light, were hopelessly at fault in a fog of conjecture.

It was nearly three o'clock before he laid an aching head on his pillow, it was nearly five before sleep came to him, but he was up at his usual hour and downstairs in his study by eight. Physically he was still tired, but the brief spell of slumber had at least rested his brain and cleared it against the problems of a new day.

However undeserving he might be of sympathy, mere humanity would suggest that it would be pleasanter, far pleasanter, to record that this day of all days in Simon Varr's life was peaceful and calm, but the truth is exactly the reverse. It was destined to be a day of bitterness and strife, terminating in actual violence.

The trouble began with Jason Bolt.

Lucy Varr did not descend for breakfast, nor did Ocky, who elected to depart from custom and have a tray brought up by Janet to her bedroom balcony. Simon ate his usual hearty meal with more deliberation than appetite, and had barely returned to his desk when he heard the squeal of brakes that distinguished Jason's car from its numerous fellows.

He came straight back to the study and threw himself into a chair, his round, good-humored face unwontedly grave.

"Well, Simon, here's a pretty kettle of fish!"

"There are several kettles of fish. Which do you mean?"

"Well—Billy Graham's, to commence with. He was around to see me an hour ago—"

"Was he sober?"

"Of course he was, don't be too unjust, Simon! Graham doesn't make a practice of drinking, and if he took one or two too many last evening, as he admits he did, I for one don't blame him. That confounded pup Langhorn told him what he overheard—"

"I know—I know all that. I have fired Langhorn and I have fired Graham." Simon's jaw tilted truculently. "What about it?"

"That's what I've come to ask. What about it? If you keep on at this rate, another week will see you down to bed-rock—reduced to one partner and one idle tannery. And some one seems determined to burn that up piecemeal!"

"I didn't see you there last night."

"No, thank goodness, I was in blissful ignorance of our latest trouble. We have guests, you know. Mary and I took the Krechs to Barney's road house just to give them a taste of night-life in Hambleton. Mr. Krech and Barney spent the evening extemporizing cocktails—"

"I'm not interested in your orgies. What did Graham have to say this morning?"

"Nothing that wasn't mighty decent, all things considered. He is sorry to go after all these years, but he doesn't question your right to fire him. He prefers to discuss the details attendant on his quitting with me—you have no objection?—and he is writing to Rochester to tell the Thibault crowd he accepts their offer."

"That doesn't break my heart. The sooner he gets to Rochester the better pleased I'll be."

"Oh, yes—because of Copley, I suppose, and the girl. Well—I guess Billy Graham isn't in the market for sympathy. He tells me that he is fairly familiar with the Thibault tanneries from hearsay and he is confident that he is taking them some tips that will make him solid with them from the start."

"Eh? What's that?" Suddenly intent, Simon Varr leaned forward and fixed a sharp gaze on the speaker. "What is he taking them? What did he refer to?"

"Why—nothing specific, Simon! No doubt he has picked up a score of useful tips during the time he has been associated with us. We can't stop him from giving them the benefit of his experience; that's the sort of thing you must expect when you fire a good man without any reason except that he has a pretty daughter whom you can't keep your only son away from. I must say, Simon—"

"Must you? Please try not to!"

Jason complied with a shrug of his shoulders; why waste his breath on this human lump of obstinacy?

Varr relaxed in his chair again, thinking. He ran over the events of the previous night. Graham had drunk at least enough to render him irresponsible for his impulses and actions. He had seen the notebook lying on the desk. Enough time had elapsed between his departure and the alarm of fire to have enabled him to slip down the hill and fire the tannery. He might then have returned and watched his opportunity to break into the house. Yes—it was possible, physically, for him to be the guilty man. "Taking something valuable to Thibault?" The notebook? Would he have the brazen nerve to make such a remark if he were the thief? Yes! If Graham were the man, that identified him with the masquerading monk, and he had nerve enough for anything!

It struck Simon—while his partner waited in glum silence—that it would be interesting to learn where Graham had been on the night before after leaving him in the study. To put it more bluntly—had the man an alibi? How did one go to work to learn such things, short of asking open questions? Varr shelved the problem temporarily, though an idea in the back of his head was slowly shaping itself into the answer. He would do nothing decisive until he had weighed things more carefully and was sure—

"How shall we replace Billy Graham?" said Jason Bolt, having fidgeted in silence to the limit of his patience. "Have you any one in mind?"

"Certainly I have!" snapped his partner, who had given not a thought to the matter until that moment. "D'you suppose I'd fire a man unless I saw my way free of that difficulty? There's old Maple; let him take hold when he is hungry enough to come back to work."

"Maple? A good, steady man, Simon, but not the sort I'd pick. Not a scrap of initiative. He knows enough to do just what he's told to do, but—"

"That's the sort of man I want."

"And what you say goes! Don't trouble to point that out; I have heard it before. Do you mind, however, if I mention another man whom I've been thinking might fit in?"

"Well—who?"

"Copley. Your son. Don't look as if a snake had bit you! I think he would make up in intelligence anything he lacks in experience. He is quick to learn—"

"You may leave him out of your calculations."

Jason started at the tone of the remark, glanced at Varr's set face and shot at him an impulsive question.

"Simon! You haven't gone and quarreled with him too, have you?"

"Never mind that."

"By thunder, you have!" Jason Bolt regarded his partner open-mouthed. Then he added, half to himself: "'Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad!'"

"What's that?" snapped Simon. The quotation had jarred on him, something in its phraseology savoring unpleasantly of the anonymous message he had received. "I'm a long way from being mad!"

"You can't prove it by me," said Jason rudely. He came to his feet. "I'll be getting back home; only blew in to talk with you about Billy." He hesitated before continuing. "By the way, Simon, are you going to be at the office this morning?"

"Very likely—yes, I shall. Why?"

"This chap who's staying with me—Herman Krech—very nice fellow—he's the broker I was speaking of to you the other day. I thought I might bring him in and introduce him to you."

"Listen to me, Jason!" Varr's face was slowly flushing with anger. "We are not going to incorporate!"

"Oh—bless me, I'd practically abandoned that notion myself," said Mr. Bolt, airily mendacious. "Nothing was farther from my thoughts; I just thought I'd show him around and introduce him to you—let him see all the sights, huh? You may as well meet him; we're bound to be dining together either here or at my house as soon as our wives get their heads—"

"Bring him in by all means," interrupted Varr. The idea in the back of his head had suddenly burgeoned while his partner rambled on. "If either of you mentions the word incorporate I'll have you thrown out, but there is another matter in which he may be of service to me."

"Krech? Why, you don't even know him!"

"Well, you're going to fix that difficulty, aren't you?" Varr turned to his desk in his usual gesture of dismissal. "I'll be there at eleven."

True to his word, at a few minutes past ten Simon left home for the tannery. He would have a busy day, there, what with insurance data and other matters relative to the fire. The prospect fretted him—and it steeled his resolution to leave no stone unturned to bring the author of his troubles to book. Blast him! He'd learn that it was safer to monkey with a buzz-saw than with Simon Varr!

He stopped at the door of the office-building for a word with Nelson, who was already yawning at his post. Without any suggestion other than the promptings of good-nature, he had turned out long before daybreak to relieve the tired Fay.

"Mr. Bolt and another gentleman are in back, sir," he reported. "Just looking around. A young man was in about the insurance—said he'd be back later. Steiner was here, very curious about the fire, but I told him he'd have to see you."

"Right. You can tell Mr. Bolt that I'm upstairs. Did you or Fay look around any more in the neighborhood of those footprints?"

"Footprints? He said nothing to me—"

"True; I told him to keep his head shut. I will talk to you about that later, Nelson. There hasn't been any trouble from the strikers?"

"I haven't seen a soul, sir, but I've heard they are having a sort of a meeting this morning. There's been talk of appointing a committee to call on you and discuss things."

"There's nothing to discuss. However, I'm perfectly willing to meet a committee from them and tell them again that they'll gain nothing by their strike but trouble for themselves. You have to tell a fool the same thing over and over again before he'll believe it. Send 'em up when they come—but not more than three of 'em, I don't want a whole mob mucking up my office."

"Yes, sir. There's been a young woman askin' for you, too, sir. A girl named Drusilla Jones."

"Never heard of her." Simon, on the point of turning away, paused and looked curious. "What does she want?"

"She's been goin' around pretty steady with Charlie Maxon, sir. I guess she'll want to see you about lettin' him out."

"Humph. He's where he belongs, and I wouldn't do anything to get him out even if I could. Tell her that, and say I won't see her. Make it clear, Nelson, I've no time to waste on Maxon's women."

"Yes, sir."

The watchman had nothing further to offer, and Varr went up to his office and busied himself with the morning mail. There were more indignant demands from aggrieved customers, and the fact that Simon had expected them did not lessen their power to annoy. His face grew steadily redder and redder as he worked through the pile of correspondence.

A clock in the outer office struck eleven, and as the last loud stroke thinned to silence there came the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. Jason Bolt believed in punctuality.

He entered with a cheerful greeting that suggested he had recovered some of his equanimity since his earlier talk with his partner. On his heels came his friend, a genial-looking, red-faced, smooth-shaven gentleman whose personal dimensions and displacement were such that they seemed to dwarf the small office to the proportions of a room in a doll's house. He stood well over six feet, was broad, deep-chested and bulky, but moved with a light-footed agility that argues muscle rather than fat. Simon was not a small man himself, but he felt like a pigmy as his hand disappeared into one that opened like a suitcase.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Varr," said the newcomer pleasantly, in a voice that was deep but agreeably pitched. "Bolt has been showing me the whole works, here. You have a fine proposition."

"I think so," concurred Simon with mild gruffness. "Jason is dissatisfied with it, but it suits me very well."

"So I have gathered from talking with him," said Mr. Krech, genially. "No doubt you are right—at any rate, I seldom try to advise other men in respect to their own business." He took a huge cigar-case from his pocket and opened it, then offered it to Varr and Jason Bolt. "No? You don't mind if I do, though?" He carefully lighted a mammoth cigar and sat down on a chair toward which Simon had waved. "I see that some one else is dissatisfied with the tannery, too. You must have had a narrow escape from being burned out last night."

"Ah, yes! We have had some little trouble with a number of malcontent employees. I am gradually weeding out the more noxious of them—eh, Jason?" Mr. Bolt palpably winced. "In fact, Mr. Krech, there have been developments in connection with that fire, and certain other occurrences, that put it in my mind to ask something of you."

"Bolt told me that you wanted to see me about something," said the big man heartily as the tanner paused to choose his words. "If I can be of service to you I'll be delighted."

"Thanks. It's really a very simple matter. You see, I have decided to have this fire—and those other occurrences—investigated, competently investigated, and their perpetrator punished to the full extent of the law. Unfortunately, the local police are utterly incompetent to handle a case of this kind, and I don't think much more of the County officials. It finally struck me that a private detective agency might do the trick. But I don't know any such concern and I don't feel like employing one blindly, so I thought I'd take advantage of your coming from New York and ask you to hunt up a responsible agency for me."

"A private detective!" exclaimed Jason Bolt. "Why, Simon, what has happened to require any such critter as that? What are those other occurrences you speak of?"

"I'll tell you—I'll tell you in good time. First, I want to hear if Mr. Krech is disposed to assist me. He has facilities in New York for locating a reputable agency, no doubt."

"I don't have to go to New York for that," answered the big man promptly. "You've come to the right place for information, Mr. Varr. I know a very capable chap." He turned to Jason, and added slowly: "We don't talk much about it, as you can imagine, but possibly you have heard that my wife's brother was murdered under rather curious circumstances; a cold-blooded crime if ever there was one."

"I've heard Mary speak of it," admitted Bolt.

"Well, the detective I have in mind is the man who cleared up that mystery." His gaze shifted back to Simon. "Of course, knowing him and getting him are two different things. He's usually up to his ears in one thing or another. If it's not too confidential, and you want to give me an idea of your problem, perhaps it would help me interest him. At least, if it is out of his line, he will recommend some one else who'll be competent to handle it for you."

The tanner gagged a bit over the idea of any private detective rejecting his patronage, but after all he wanted a good man and not the first Tom, Dick or Harry to offer his services so he gulped down the tart comment that had sprung to his lips.

"There's nothing confidential about it—short of its getting into the papers and giving my show away. I've got to tell Jason about it, and if you care to listen I'll be glad of your opinion on the whole crazy business. It began with—"

He got no farther for the moment. There was a scuffling and shuffling of feet from the direction of the stairs, and Nelson appeared in advance of three rather ill-at-ease visitors. They were dressed in workmen's clothing and carried their caps respectfully in their hands.

"A committee from our strikers," explained Varr curtly to his partner. He stood up. "Don't bother, Jason, stay here with Mr. Krech while I talk to them in the outer room. It'll take me about two minutes to get rid of 'em!" he added grimly.

He strode from the room and met the approaching delegation halfway across the main office. From where they sat, Jason Bolt and his friend could watch the ensuing proceedings and hear every word that was spoken.

Varr was instantly wrathful at discovering in the gray-haired individual who turned out to be their spokesman an old employee whose name was Maple, the very man he had spoken of to Bolt as possibly replacing Graham as manager. He could almost hear Jason chuckling over the fact as he snapped a curt command at the fellow to state his business.

"We've come for a talk with you, Mr. Varr," began Maple soberly, "because there's some of us who feel that this strike has gone on too long as it is. It's bad for us, sir, and it must be bad for you and Mr. Bolt. We three have been appointed to call on you gentlemen and ask you to look into the whole situation with us. There's points on which we've been unreasonable, maybe, and there's others where we think you've been unreasonable. If we give in a bit and you give in a bit perhaps we can reach some sort of a compromise that'll let us all go to work—"

"Stop! I've been waiting for that word compromise! You can go back and tell your crowd that this strike isn't going to be settled—it's going to be broken!" Varr smashed one fist into the other as he roared his defiance. "Go back and tell 'em! Tell 'em I'll watch every man of you starving in the gutters before I'll be driven into doing what I've said I won't do. Go set some more fires in the tannery; you'll soon find that'll get you nowhere but in jail!"

"We've set no fires, Mr. Varr," answered Maple with dignity. "On the contrary, sir, the three of us here now were amongst them who helped to put out the fire last night. You've no call to blackguard honest men. As for starving in the gutter, sir—"

He stopped speaking to reach in his pocket and draw out a few small bills, which he held up for Varr's inspection, and at a nod of his head, his two companions also produced money from their trousers. Simon glanced at it and sneered.

"Found a union to support you, eh?"

"No, sir, not that. To tell the truth, Mr. Varr, there don't seem to be any good reason to tell you where this came from, or how it came, but we feel in duty bound to say it brought with it a message for you."

"A message? For me?" Simon repeated the phrases quickly, his mind alert for new alarms. "Well, what was it? Get it out!"

"We were told to tell you that while we held out against you we could count on getting money for our needs from the 'Black Monk'."

"The Black Monk!" Simon fell back a pace as he whispered the words. "The Black Monk! What—what do you mean?"

"That's all we can tell you, sir." Maple fumbled with his cap and coughed nervously. "We'll ask you again, sir, as in duty bound to our comrades, if you'll help us come to a compromise—"

"No!"

The committee shrank back from the explosive quality of the monosyllable that was like a door slammed in their faces.

"Very well, sir, then we'll wish you good day—and a kinder heart for your fellowmen."

"Stop!"

Sheer anger at this latest evidence of his enemy's activity had swept Simon Varr beyond self-control, beyond reasoning and beyond decency. He launched upon the stolid committee a rushing torrent of insult and invective. The veneer of dignity that had come to him with wealth and position slipped from him, as the old skin slips from a snake, and he went back to the vocabulary of his youth for terms sufficiently blasphemous and obscene to express his opinion of the strike, the strikers, the committee and its sponsors. He did not stop until his breath failed and left him panting.

The two men in the small office listened to that tirade in embarrassed silence. Jason Bolt fidgeted in his chair and grew pink to the tips of his ears. Herman Krech, as became a tactful bystander, gazed at the floor, stared at the ceiling, studied the glowing tip of his cigar, peered through the grimy window at the uninspiring view of Hambleton and generally comported himself with discretion and savoir faire. Inwardly, he was wondering if he had any right to inflict this termagant tanner on his unsuspecting friend, the detective. Not by a jugful, unless the mutt had a mighty interesting case—

"I think," said Simon Varr, reentering his office, "I think I have now made my position clear to those fellows!" A grim satisfaction was apparent in his voice and bearing, the usual aftermath with him of an outburst of temper. "Now we can resume where we left off."

"What was that stuff about a monk?" demanded Jason.

"That's part of my story. When Mr. Krech has heard it, he will tell us if it is likely to interest his friend." He sent a questioning glance at the big man. "By the way, what is his name?"

"Peter Creighton," said Mr. Krech.



X: Creighton Takes the Case

Jason Bolt and Herman Krech listened to Varr's narrative in rapt silence. The former's interest was mixed with amazement, the latter's with enthusiasm. As the tale progressed the big man hitched farther and farther forward in his chair, his expression that of a little child who proposes to miss no syllable of a fascinating fairy story. He considered himself something of a connoisseur in crime, did Mr. Krech, thanks to a few experiences with his friend Creighton, and a subject that had always made an appeal to his imagination was now become the hobby of his every idle moment. Although he would not have abandoned a lucrative business to take a position on Creighton's staff of operatives, it was his secret grief that the detective had never recognized his ability to the extent of offering him one.

He was beaming with delight by the time Varr had ended his curt account of his tribulations, and his distaste of the tanner's personality had been temporarily forgotten.

"Gee Joseph, Mr. Varr!" he burst out. "You really ought to congratulate yourself! You've been the victim of the prettiest piece of persecution I've ever heard of!"

"Thanks," returned Simon without enthusiasm.

"He seems to be waltzing all around you and jabbing you just where it will hurt the most, and yet he's clever enough to evade capture and even to keep you from guessing his identity. Why not make a list of your known enemies and check them off one by one?"

"Too many of 'em," retorted Simon briefly.

"Ah, yes—I should have thought of that!" A muffled snort from Jason marked his appreciation of the seemingly ingenuous jibe. "If a man's known by the enemies he makes, I should say this fellow was a lasting credit to you. You'll miss him when he's gone."

"I'll miss him with pleasure. But when is he going? D'you think this is a problem that will appeal to Mr. Creighton's critical taste?"

"It will have my hearty endorsement, anyway, when I submit it to him. He likes crooks with imagination, I know, and this bird has it. I wish you had brought along that note you got from him."

"I did." The tanner reached into his pocket and drew forth the message that he had found in the deft stick. "I decided to fetch it as long as I intended to tell you the story."

Krech accepted the bit of brown paper, carefully taking it by the tip of one corner and opening it with a shake. He held it out for Jason to read, but drew it back from the other's outstretched hand.

"Naughty, naughty, mustn't touch!"

"Fingerprints?" grunted Varr skeptically.

"It's a possibility we must consider," insisted the big man firmly. "I don't believe there are any, sort of pity if there were."

"Pity, eh? What do you mean, pity?"

"It would cheapen our crook. I don't believe he's the lad to leave clues." He added calmly, "Hush, now, and let me read this carefully."

Simon gasped and hushed. He consoled himself with the reflection that this human mastodon probably knew what it was about.

"Well, I'm hanged!" blurted Jason Bolt, when he had perused the missive. "What do you make of it, Krech?"

"Why, there are a number of curious features about it that leap to the eye," said Mr. Krech blandly. "I will call them to Creighton's attention, of course." He stepped to Varr's desk, helped himself to an unused envelope and inserted the note. "How many other people have touched this paper besides yourself, Mr. Varr?"

"Not a soul. I've shown it to no one."

"Oh, that's fine." He picked up a clean letterhead and held it out to the tanner. "Ink your thumbs and forefingers on that pad there and then press them on this." He waited until Simon had gruntingly obeyed. "Good. These will identify your marks on the message, and if there are any others they will be the sign manual of our crook."

"How can you be sure?" argued Jason. "It's obviously an old scrap of paper and a dozen people may have handled it before the crook got hold of it."

Mr. Krech regarded his friend with a look of dignified annoyance.

"There's always some one around to make difficulties," he said severely. "You're a fly on the wheel of progress."

"Excuse me for living," begged the fly meekly. Then he looked at his watch and exclaimed, "Hello. Our wives, Krech, our wives—! We're late for lunch already! Drop you anywhere, Simon?"

"I have my car." The tanner glanced at Krech. "You'll notify Creighton?"

"With pleasure. I'll keep these for him, too."

He placed the envelope containing the message and the fingerprints in his pocket, then moved to follow his friend, already on his way to the stairs. He paused at the door, however, and came back rather hesitatingly. "Say—just how did that couplet run?"

Simon made a wry face, but obligingly recited:

"'Who meets the monk when dusk is nigh Within the fortnight he shall die.'"

"Do you take that seriously?" asked the big man.

"Do you take me for a blasted fool?" snapped Simon irritably.

"Yes," said Mr. Krech simply. "Just the sort of blasted fool I would be in your place, or that nine out of ten men would be. Because the threat is directed at you, you scoff at it and ignore it."

"What are you getting at?"

"This: the fellow who wrote that note and does his stuff in a monk's costume has all the earmarks of a maniac. Maniacs are dangerous. If he has made use of this old local legend to further his purpose, he may go ahead with it to the bitter end—your bitter end! Until he is laid by the heels, why not play safe and stay home after dark?"

"Humph. I'm likely to, aren't I?" jeered Simon.

"No, you aren't, because, to use your own expression, you're 'a blasted fool,'" conceded Mr. Krech cheerfully. "Anyway, if you happen to get bumped off, don't come around haunting me on the score that I didn't warn you!" He smiled benignly. "Ta-ta!"

The tanner choked back an oath. For some time after the loud groaning of the stairs beneath his visitor's tread had died away, he sat at his desk and scratched his chin gently as he meditated. The striking of the clock in the outer office recalled him to more present matters. It was understood that if he did not return home by a certain hour in the middle of the day he would lunch downtown, and the hour was now past. On these occasions he usually walked to the Hambleton Hotel, the town's one hostelry, where he could regale himself on a couple of heavy sandwiches and a cup of doubtful coffee.

Thither he now betook himself, frowning on the way as he noted some condemnatory expressions on the faces of those he passed on the street. He knew that public opinion was antagonistic to him in the matter of the strike and his treatment of Maxon—the Hambleton News had run a nasty paragraph about the last—and the censure irritated, if it did not move him.

He had no sooner entered the dingy lobby of the hotel than his eye rested on his son, Copley, seated at a rickety writing table and industriously scribbling on a pad of cheap paper. Varr strode across to his side and addressed him curtly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Living here," returned the young man, glancing up but making no move to rise. He met his father's angry glare coolly. "More convenient to my job."

"Your job!" echoed Simon derisively. "What mental incompetent has employed you?"

"Barlow, the editor of the News. I'm a reporter now."

"Humph. Why?"

"For ready money, naturally, until I can get something good."

"Am I to understand you have left my roof?"

"Absolutely. Left it last night, and returned for clothes and a few personal belongings this morning. You piled it on a bit thick last evening—too thick. I've quit."

"Saved me the trouble of throwing you out!" said Simon between his teeth. "What did you tell your mother?"

"The truth. I didn't intend to, but I found Aunt Ocky had overheard our little chat and had told her we'd had a holy row. Sorry."

"Blast your Aunt Ocky!"

That did not seem to call for a reply and Copley made none. After a few seconds of silence he raised his pencil suggestively.

"Speaking as a prominent citizen, Mr. Varr, what have you to say regarding the opening of the new sewer in State Street?"

"Nothing—except that I hope you'll fall into it!" said his father with asperity, and walked away.

Copley wrote an item on another sheet of paper. "Among those lunching at the Hambleton Hotel yesterday was Mr. Simon Varr, of the Varr-Bolt Tanneries. He did not tip the waiter." He cocked his head at a critical angle and contemplated the last six words before reluctantly obliterating them. Discretion must be his watchword, he told himself, and a job is better than a jest.

Simon finished his meal and returned to the office, noticing already the premonitory symptoms of the mild indigestion that habitually followed the greasy cooking of the hotel chef. He found his insurance man waiting for him and spent two tedious hours over an inventory and proofs of loss before he could rid himself of the fellow—and sped his going with a curse because the broker warned him the insurance company would certainly cancel their existing policies if they got wind of an incendiary.

That reminded Simon of the footprints in the tannery yard which he had wished to examine by daylight. He had intended to show them to that chap Krech, but Jason had spoiled things by hurrying him off to his silly lunch. He descended the stairs, called Nelson to join him, and went to the end of the fence around which the fire bug had fled.

He gave the watchman a brief account of Fay's experience at the commencement of the fire, when he had actually obtained a glimpse of the incendiary at his evil work. He discussed with Nelson, a shrewd man, the possible identity of the miscreant, but they arrived at no conclusion. Together they traced the footprints from the yard around the fence and up the muddy bank of the little stream until they vanished on the firmer ground outside the premises.

"Make anything of them?" asked Varr.

"Nothing more than you do, sir; they seem to be the tracks of a large man. That friend of Mr. Bolt's could have made 'em nicely."

"Get a couple of empty boxes," directed Simon, mindful of the protective device he had used in his kitchen garden to preserve the marks left by Charlie Maxon. "Cover up two good sets of these; they may come in handy later." He studied the skies. "We'll probably have rain before morning."

"Fay won't object to that," declared the watchman, grinning. "If he had his wish, it would rain chemical fire-extinguishing fluid!"

Simon lingered to see that the work of covering the tracks was properly done, and hoped that Mr. Krech and his detective would appreciate his thoughtfulness. Then he left the tannery, climbed into his car and drove home. The strain of the night before had told on even his iron physique—and there was the mute appeal of a decanter of Bourbon that he knew would freshen his nagging spirit.

Jason's dilapidated little touring car greeted his gaze as he drove past the front of the house to the garage, and a sound of light voices came to him from the side veranda. Easy enough to guess the meaning of that, the Bolts had dropped in with their friends for tea and a chat with Lucy, who counted Mary Bolt her closest friend.

He joined them a moment later. Lucy, he saw at once, had been crying. No amount of powder or superficial gayety could conceal that fact from him. She did not look at him directly, and her voice was frigid as she introduced him to the one member of the party he had not met.

"Mrs. Krech—my husband."

Varr bowed to a tall, slender, strikingly handsome young woman with deep-blue eyes and a mass of dark red hair, who was seated beside his sister-in-law on a couch. The two were talking earnestly together until he interrupted them, as though they had taken an instant liking to each other.

"Excuse me if I don't get up," apologized Krech from the deep chair in which he was sitting. "I'm anchored."

The handsome Angora had found him, and as though to mark his approbation of another animal as fine as himself, had leaped into his lap and curled up contentedly beneath his caressing hand. Despite his words, Krech put him down and rose immediately when Simon indicated that he did not propose to join them. He followed the tanner into the house and accosted him in the hall.