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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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moment of reconnoitering, the light went out and the door was shut
sharply. Burton sprang toward it, stumbled over the armchair he had
himself placed in the way, picked himself up, and reached the door,--
only to look into the blank blackness of the back hall. There was a
faint quiver of sound in the air, as though the outer house door had
jarred with a sudden closing, and he ran down the hall; the door
was unlocked and yielded at once to his touch. For a moment
everything was still; then he heard the clatter of feet on a board
walk. It was as though some one, escaping, had waited to see if he
would be pursued and then had fled on. Burton ran around to the
rear of the house, thankful that the moonlight now made his way
plain. There was a board walk running from the kitchen door to a
high wall at the end of the lot, but the sound he had heard was
momentary, not continuous, so, on the theory that the man had
crossed the walk, not run down the hundred feet of it to the alley, he
ran on to the east side of the house. There was no one to be seen,
of course. Any one familiar with the location could have hidden
himself in any of a hundred shadows. The lot was filled with trees,
and one large oak almost rested against the house. It reminded him
of Henry's remark at dinner about getting down from the second
story by the oak on the east side, and he glanced up. It looked an
easy climb--and two of the house windows were lit. On the impulse
of the moment, he swung himself up into the branches. As he came
level with the lit windows, Henry Underwood passed one of them,
still fully dressed. He was so near that Burton was certain for a
moment that he himself must have been discovered, and he waited
a moment in suspense. But Henry had passed the window without
looking out.

What Burton had expected to discover was perhaps not clear to his
own mind. If he had analyzed the intuition he followed, he would
have said that he was acting on the theory that Henry had looked
into his room, and then, fleeing out of doors to throw him off the
scent--by that side door to which he obviously carried a key, since he
had let himself in that way shortly before--had regained his room by
this schoolboy stairway. The feeling had been strong upon him that
he was close on the trail of some one fleeing. But if in fact it had
been Henry, how could he challenge him, here in his own room?
Clearly he was within his rights here,--a fact that was emphasized
when, after a minute, he came to the window and pulled the curtain
down.

Burton dropped to the ground and retraced his steps around the rear
of the house. Here he saw that the board walk ran down to a gate,--
the gate in the rear by which he had seen Mrs. Bussey talking in
excited fashion to a man, earlier in the day. The gate opened at
Burton's touch and he looked out into an empty alley. It was so
obvious that this would have been the natural and easy way of
escape that he could only blame himself for folly in chasing an
uncertain sound of footsteps past the gate around to the east of the
house.

He found his way back to the surgery a good deal humiliated. The
mysterious intruder had been almost within reach of his arm, and
had got away without leaving a trace, and all that was gained was
that hereafter he would be more alert than ever, knowing himself
watched. It was not a very creditable beginning. Burton threw
himself down on the couch, and his annoyance did not prevent his
dropping, after a time, into a sound sleep.

Therefore he did not see how that red glow on the sky above the
trees deepened and made a bright hole in the night, long before the
morning came to banish the darkness legitimately.

CHAPTER VII

THE WORK OF THE INCENDIARY

Burton awoke from his short and uneasy sleep with a sudden start
and the feeling that some one had been near him. The room was,
however, empty and gray in the early morning light. As full
recollection of the events that had passed came back to his mind, an
ugly thought pressed to the front. Was it Henry who was persecuting
the doctor? Or, rather, was there a possibility that it was not Henry?
It certainly was Henry who had been abroad at two in the night,--
that was indisputable. Burton had seen him too clearly to be in
doubt. Was it not straining incredulity to doubt that it was Henry
who had tried to enter his room a few minutes later? If it had been a
stranger, would Henry not have been aroused by the opening and
shutting of the outside door? It was not a pleasant idea that Miss
Underwood's brother was the culprit in the case, but it appeared
that he had already laid himself open to suspicion in connection with
the series of petty annoyances which his sister had narrated. The
local police might not be expert detectives, but they must have
average intelligence and experience. And that Henry was moved by
a sort of dumb antagonism toward his father was quite obvious.

Burton jumped up from the couch, where he had been revolving the
situation, and a scrap of paper, dislodged from his clothing, fell to
the floor. He picked it up and read:

"Spy!
"Go back, spy, or you'll be sorry."

In spite of nerves that were ordinarily steady enough, Burton felt a

thrill of something like dismay. An unfriendly presence had bent over
him while he slept, left this message of sinister import, and vanished
as he had vanished into the night when pursued. The thought that
he had lain helpless under the scrutiny of this soft-footed, invisible
enemy was more disturbing than the threat itself. It gave him a
sensation of repulsion that made him understand Miss Underwood's
feeling. The situation was not merely bizarre. It was intolerable.

He examined the slip of paper carefully. It was long and narrow and
soft,--such a strip as might have been torn from the margin of a
newspaper. The writing was with a very soft, blunt pencil. A pencil
such as he had seen carpenters use in marking boards might have
made those heavy lines. The hand was obviously disguised and not
very skilfully, for while occasional strokes were laboriously unsteady,
others were rapid and firm.

He folded the paper and put it carefully away in his pocketbook. If

this were Henry's work, he undoubtedly was also the author of the
anonymous typewritten notices which had been circulated in the
town. Why was the message written this time instead of
typewritten? A typewriter in the corner of the room caught his eye,
as though it were itself the answer to his question. With a swift
suspicion in his mind, he sat down before it and wrote a few lines.
Upon comparing these with the typewritten slip which the doctor
had shown him the evening before, and which still lay on the
mantel, it was perfectly clear that they had both been produced by
the same machine. Some one who had easy and unquestioned
access to this room used the doctor's typewriter to tick off
insinuations against its owner! It seemed like substantial proof of
Henry's guilt. Who else could use this room without exciting
comment? The audacity of the scheme was hardly more surprising
than its simple-mindedness. Burton crushed his sheet in his hand
and tossed it into the wastepaper basket with a feeling of contempt.

While he made a camp toilet he wondered why he had let himself in

for all this. He had acted on a foolish impulse. There were roily
depths in the matter which it would probably be better not to stir up,
and it must now be his immediate care to get out of the whole
connection as soon as possible. He had no desire to play detective
against Miss Underwood's brother. Thank heaven that her
acceptance of his tender for Philip had been so conditioned! He
would withdraw while the matter was still nebulous.

There came a tap at the door and Mrs. Bussey entered.

"Breakfast's ready," she announced. Then she waited a moment and

added in a shamefaced undertone that betrayed the unfamiliarity of
the message, "Miss Underwood's compliments!" and vanished in
obvious embarrassment.

Burton had to laugh at that, and with more cheerfulness than he

would have thought possible he found his way to the breakfast
room. Miss Underwood herself smiled a welcome at him from the
head of the table.

"You are to breakfast tête-à-tête with me," she said, answering his
unconscious look of inquiry. "Mother always breakfasts in her room,
and poor father will have to do the same this morning. Henry has
been gardening for hours. So you have only myself left!"

"I can imagine worse fates," said Burton. And then, with a curiosity
about Henry which was none the less keen because he did not
intend to make it public, he asked: "Is your brother an enthusiastic
gardener?"

"It is the only thing he cares about, but it would be stretching the
word to call him enthusiastic, I'm afraid. Poor Henry!"

"Why?"

"I mean because of Ben Bussey."

"Oh, yes."

"It has made him so moody and strange. You see, he has had Ben
before him all his life as an object lesson on the effects of temper,
and mother has rather pointed the moral. She thinks that all troubles
are the punishment of some wrongdoing, and she has had a good
deal of influence with Henry always. It has made him resentful
toward every one."

"It's unfortunate. Wouldn't it be better to send Ben away?"

"Father hoped to cure him, so he kept him here. Besides, he couldn't

afford to keep him anywhere else, I'm afraid. It would be expensive
to send him to a hospital,--and father can do everything for him that
any one could. No one realizes as I do how father has worried over
the whole unhappy situation. He has tried everything for Ben,--even
to electricity. And that made trouble, too!"

"Why? Did Ben object?"

"No, but his mother did. I think the popular prejudice against father
on all sides is largely the effect of Mrs. Bussey's talking. She is an
ignorant woman, as you can see."

"What is Ben's attitude? Is he resentful?"

"Not at all. He is a quiet, sensible fellow, who takes things

philosophically. He knows it was all an accident, of course. And he
knows that father has done everything possible, besides taking on
himself the support of both Ben and his mother for life."

"That is more than mere justice."

"Oh, father is like that! Besides, they would be helpless. Ben's father
was a roving character who lived for years among the Indians. He
hasn't been heard of for years, and no one knows whether he is
dead or alive. He had practically deserted them years before Ben's
accident. So father felt responsible for them, because of Henry."

"I see," said Burton thoughtfully.

Just then the door was thrown suddenly open, and Mrs. Bussey
popped in, her face curiously distorted with excitement.

"The Spriggs' house is burnt!" she exclaimed, with obvious

enjoyment in chronicling great news.

"How do you know?" demanded Leslie.

"Milkman told me. Burnt to the ground."

"Was any one hurt?"

"No," she admitted regretfully. Then she cheered up, and added:
"But the house was burnt to the ground! Started at two o'clock in
the night, and they had ter get outer the winder to save their lives.
Not a rag of clothes to their backs. Jest smoking ashes now."

"I must go and see them immediately after breakfast," said Leslie.
And, by way of dismissal, she added: "Please bring some hot toast
now."

As soon as Mrs. Bussey was out of the room she turned to Burton.

"That is the family whose children threw stones at father yesterday.

I'm awfully sorry this happened."

"Yes?"

"Because--oh, you can't imagine how people talk!--some one is sure

to say that it happened because they stoned him."

"Oh, how absurd! Who would say that?"

She shook her head with a hopeless gesture. "You don't realize how
eager people are to believe evil. It is like the stories of the wolves
who devour their companions when they fall. They can't prove
anything, but they are all the more ready to talk as though they
thought it might be true. But at any rate, they can't claim that he set
fire to the Sprigg house since he can't walk. Oh dear, I'm glad he
sprained his ankle yesterday!"

"Filial daughter!" said Burton lightly. But his mind was busy with
what he had seen in the night. Where had Henry been when he
came back from town at two o'clock in the night? It would be
fortunate if popular suspicion did indeed fall upon the doctor in this
case, since he could more easily prove an alibi than some other
members of his family.

"You will see father before you leave, will you not?" asked Leslie,
after a moment.

"Yes. And if you really think it wise to visit the scene of disaster this
morning, will you not permit me to accompany you?"

"Wise!" she said, with a look of wonder and a cheerless little laugh.
"My family is not conspicuous for its wisdom. But I shall be very glad
to have you go with me. I am going immediately. Will you see my
father first?"

"Yes," he said, rising.

Dr. Underwood had already heard the news. He was up and nearly
dressed when he answered Burton's knock at his door.

"So you think you're all right again," the latter said.

"It doesn't make any difference whether I am all right or not," the
doctor said impetuously. "I've got to get out. You've heard about the
fire?"

"Yes."

"I would have given my right hand to prevent it."

"You weren't given the choice," said Burton coolly, "so your hand is
saved to you and you will probably find use for it. What's more, you
are going back to bed, and you will stay there until I give you leave
to get up."

"The devil I am! What for?"

"Because you can't walk a step on account of your sprained ankle."

Underwood turned to look at him in amaze.

"Oh, can't I?"

"Not a step."

"Suppose I don't agree with you?"

"If my orders are not obeyed, of course I shall throw up the case."

Underwood sat down on the edge of the bed. "So you think it's as
bad as that!" he muttered. Suddenly he lifted his head with a keen
look at Burton, but if a question were on his lips he checked it there.
"All right," he said wearily. "I--I'll leave the case in your hands,
Doctor. By the way, you didn't have any reward for your vigil last
night, did you? There was no attempt to enter the surgery?"

"Oh, an amateur can't always expect to bag his game at the first
shot," Burton said lightly.

He found Miss Underwood ready and waiting when he came

downstairs, and they set out at once for the scene of the fire. She
looked so thoughtful and preoccupied that he could not fail to realize
how serious this affair must seem to her. Could it be that she
entertained any of his own uncomfortable doubts as to the
accidental character of the fire?
"I am consumed with wonder as to why you are going to visit the
Spriggs," he said, as they went out into the shaded street. "Is it pure
humanitarianism?"

"No," she said slowly. "I am worried. Of course they can't connect
father with it, and yet--I am worried."

"And so you want to be on the field of battle?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's gallant, at any rate."

"But not wise?" she asked seriously.

"I withdraw that word. It is always wise to meet things with

courage."

She walked on in silence a few moments.

"But they can't connect father with this, can they?" she asked
earnestly.

"Of course not," he said,--and wished they need prepare to face no

more serious attack than one on the doctor.

There was a small crowd about the smoking ruins of what had been
a sprawling frame dwelling-house. A couple of firemen were still on
the grounds, and uncounted boys were shouting with excitement
and running about with superfluous activity. The nucleus of the
crowd seemed to be an excited and crying woman, and Miss
Underwood pressed toward this point. A large man, pompous even
at this early morning hour, whose back was toward them as they
approached, was talking.

"I have no doubt you are right, ma'am. I heard him say myself that
fire would come down and burn them because they threw stones at
him. It is an outrage that such a man should be loose in the
community. We are none of us safe in our beds."

It was Hadley. Some exclamation made him turn at that moment

and he saw Leslie Underwood, and suddenly fell silent. But the
woman to whom he had been talking did not fall silent. Instead, she
rushed up to Leslie and screamed at her, between angry sobs:

"Yes, you'd better come and look at your father's work. I wonder
that you dare show your face! Burnt in our beds we might have been
and that's what he meant, and all because the boys threw some bits
of stones playful-like at his old buggy. Every one of us might have
been burnt to death, and where are our things and our clothes and
our home, and where are we going to live? Burnt up by that wicked
old man, and I wonder you will show your face in the street!"

Miss Underwood shrank back, speechless and dismayed, before the

furious woman, and Burton put himself before her.

"Mrs. Sprigg, your misfortune will make Miss Underwood overlook

your words, but nothing will justify or excuse them. You have
suffered a loss and we are all sorry for you, and Miss Underwood
came here for the express purpose of offering to help you if there is
anything she can do. But you must not slander an innocent man.
And as for the rest of you," he added, turning with blazing anger to
the crowd as a whole, "you must remember that such remarks as I
heard when I came up will make you liable to an action for
defamation of character. The law does not permit you to charge a
man with arson without any ground for doing so."

"If Dr. Underwood didn't do it, who did? Tell me that," a man in the
crowd called out.

"I don't have to tell you. That's nonsense. Probably it caught from
the chimney."
"The chief says it's incendiary all right. Started in a bedroom on the
second floor, in a pile of clothes near a window."

"Even if it were incendiary,--though I don't believe it was--that has

nothing to do with Dr. Underwood. He's laid up with a sprained ankle
and can't walk a step, let alone climb up to a second story window."

"Well, Henry Underwood hasn't sprained an ankle, has he?" This

came from Selby, whom Burton had not noticed before. He thrust
himself forward now, and there was something almost like triumph
in his excited face.

"What do you mean by bringing his name in?" Burton asked sternly.

"It looks like his work all right. More than one fire has been started
by him in High Ridge before this. There are people who haven't
forgotten his tricks here six years ago, writing letters about his
father, and burning clothes and keeping the whole place stirred up.
I'm not surprised he has come to this."

"He ought to be hung for this, that's what he ought," burst in Mrs.
Sprigg. "Burning people's houses over their heads, in the dead of
night! Hanging's too good for him."

"You have not an atom of evidence to go on," cried Burton,

exasperated into argument. "You might just as well accuse me, or
Mr. Selby, or any one else. Henry Underwood has no ill-will against
you,--"

"The doctor said that fire would come and burn the children up; Mr.
Hadley heard him."

"That was nonsense. I heard what he said, too. He was just joking.
Besides, that was the doctor, it wasn't Henry."

"If the doctor had a wanted to a done it, he could," said an old man,
judicially. "He knows too much for his own good, he does, and too
much for the good of the people that go agin him. 'Tain't safe to go
agin him. He can make you lay on your back all your life, like he
done with Ben Bussey. He'd a been well long afore this if the doctor
had treated him right."

"Come away from this," said Burton in a low voice to Leslie. "You see
you can do no good. There is no reason why you should endure
this."

She let him guide her through the crowd, but as they turned away,
Selby called to Burton:

"You say we haven't any evidence. I'm going to get it. There is no
one in High Ridge but Henry Underwood who would do such a trick,
and I am going to prove it against him. We've stood this just long
enough."

Burton made no answer. He was now chiefly anxious to hurry Leslie

from an unpleasant scene. But again they were interrupted. Mr.
Hadley came puffing after them, with every sign of anxiety in his
face.

"Say, Miss Leslie," he began breathlessly, "I didn't mean what I said
about not being safe in our beds. You won't mention that to your
father, will you? I don't want to get him set against me. I'm sure he
wouldn't harm me for the world. I know I'm perfectly safe in my
bed, Miss Leslie."

She swept him with a withering look of scorn, and hurried on

without a word.

"You see," she said to Burton.

"Yes, I see. It is simply intolerable."

"How can they believe it?"

"I think your father should know what is being said. May I go home
with you, and report the affair to him?"

"I shall be thankful if you will."

"You really mean that, don't you? Of course I know that I am nearly
a stranger and that I may seem to be pressing into purely family
matters. But apart from my interest in anything that concerns Philip,
I shall be glad on my own account if I can be of any help to you in a
distressing situation."

"Thank you," she said gravely. And after a moment she added, with
a whimsical air that was like her father's: "It would hardly be worth
while for us to pretend to be strangers, after turning our skeleton-
closet into a guest-chamber for you. You know all about us!"

Burton wasn't so sure of that. And he was even less assured after
his half-hour conversation with the doctor, whom he found dressed,
but certainly not wholly in his right mind.

"I have come to report the progress of the plot," said Burton. "I am
glad to inform you that you are not suspected of having fired the
Sprigg house with your own hand. Your sprained ankle served you
well in that emergency. But your son Henry had no sprained ankle to
protect him, so they have quite concluded that it was his doing."

Dr. Underwood looked at him thoughtfully, with no change of

expression to indicate that the news was news to him.

"Was the fire incendiary?" he asked after a moment.

"So they assert."

The doctor closed his eyes with his finger-tips and sat silent for a
moment.

"Was there any talk of--arrest?"

"There was wild talk, but of course there was nothing to justify an
arrest,--no evidence."

"There never is," said the doctor. "This disturber of our peace is very
skilful. He swoops down out of the dark, with an accompaniment of
mystery and malice, and leaves us blinking, and that's all the
satisfaction we get out of it. And the anonymous letters he scatters
about are always typewritten."

"Not always," said Burton, resolving swiftly to throw the game into
the doctor's hands. He laid before him the slip of paper that had
been served upon himself in the night. "You don't, by any chance,
recognize that handwriting?"

The doctor took the slip into his own hands and read the message
gravely.

"Where did you get this?"

Burton told him the night's adventures in outline, mentioning

casually Henry's return to the house at two, and the subsequent
attempt of some one to enter his room, and his ineffectual pursuit.

Dr. Underwood listened with a more impassive face than was

altogether natural. At the end of the recital he picked up the slip of
paper again and studied it.

"I think one of those handwriting experts who analyze forgeries and
that sort of thing would say that this was my handwriting, somewhat
disguised," he said.

"Yours!" Burton exclaimed, taken by surprise.

"That's what struck me at first sight,--its familiarity. It is like seeing

your own ghost. Of course it is obviously disguised, but some of the
words look like my writing. You see how I am putting myself into
your hands by this admission."
Burton fancied he saw something else, also, and the pathetic
heroism of it made his heart swell with sudden emotion.

"A clue!" he cried gaily. "You did it in your sleep! And you wrote
those typewritten letters and handbills on the typewriter in your
surgery, when you were in the same somnambulic condition! I
examined the work of that machine this morning. It corresponds so
closely with the sheet you showed me last night that I have no
doubt an expert would be able to work out a proof of identity."

"I'll see that the room is locked hereafter at night," said the doctor,
with an effort.

"You'd be more likely to catch the villain by leaving the door

unlocked and keeping a watch," said Burton, lightly assuming that
the capture of the miscreant was still their joint object. "And I'll
leave you this new manuscript to add to your collection. It is of no
value to me."

'And he presented the incriminating paper to the doctor with a smile

and took his leave. To himself, he hoped that enough had been said
to make the doctor realize that if the disturber of the peace of High
Ridge was not to be caught, it would be best to--get him away.

As he walked toward the hotel, he let himself face the situation

frankly. If Henry was, as a matter of fact, the criminal, his firing of
the Sprigg house was probably less from malice toward the Spriggs
than from the conviction that it would be attributed to the agency of
the doctor, whose rash speech about calling down fire on his
persecutors had fitted so neatly into the outcome. Like the freakish
pranks of which Miss Underwood had told, it was designed to hold
the doctor up to public reprobation. Only this was much more
serious than those earlier pranks. If a man would go so far as to
imperil the lives of an entire family to feed fat his grudge against
some one else, and that one his own father, it argued a dangerous
degree of abnormality. Was it possible that Leslie Underwood's
brother was criminally insane? Suddenly Rachel Overman's face rose
before him. He saw just how she would look if such a question were
raised about a member of the family from which Philip had chosen
his wife.

"Oh, good Lord!" Burton muttered to himself.

 CHAPTER VIII

THE BABY THAT WAS TIED IN

It was nearing noon when Burton left Dr. Underwood's. He took the
street that ran by the Sprigg house, though it led him somewhat out
of the most direct road to the hotel. He wanted to get the temper of
the crowd and the gossip of the street. But the crowd had dispersed.
He saw one man near the blackened wall of the house where the fire
was supposed to have started. He was bending down, as though
examining the ground. Then he rose and went away,--somewhat
hurriedly and furtively, Burton thought. It was, indeed, this skulking
quality in the man's hasty departure that made Burton look at him a
second time. It was Selby. So! He was apparently hunting for the
"proof" that he had promised. But why should he be so secretive
about it?

As he came around by the other side of the burned house, he saw

that two boys were still lingering on the scene of the morning's
excitement. They were talking vigorously, and when Burton stopped
by the fence and looked in, one of the boys, recognizing a kindred
interest in the drama of life, called to him:

"Did yer see the bush where the kid was found?"

"What kid?" asked Burton.

"The Sprigg baby. He was right in here among the lilac bushes and
the soft little shoots had been tied together around him, so's he
couldn't get away, like Moses an' the bulrushes. Right in here. Yer
can see the place now."

Burton jumped the fence and went up to the place where the boys
were.

"Was the baby lost?" he asked.

"Mrs. Sprigg thought it was all burned up, because she forgot it
when she came down in a hurry, and she was carrying on just awful,
and then the firemen found the baby in here among the bushes, and
they most stepped on it before they saw it."

"Had it crawled in by itself?"

"Naw, it was tied in! See here. You can see the knots yet, only most
of them have been pulled to pieces."

"Who tied it in?" pressed Burton, bending down to examine the

knots. They certainly were peculiar. The lithe lilac twigs had been
drawn together by a cord that ran in and out among them till they
were twisted and woven together as though they were part of a
basket. It was the knot of an experienced and skilful weaver.

"Mrs. Sprigg she says at Henry Underwood would be too durn mean
to look out for the kid and she thinks it was sperrets. But if it was
sperrets they could a took the baby clear over to some house,
couldn't they? The branches was tied together so's they had to cut
some of them to get the kid out. See, you can see here where they
cut 'em."

Burton found that the theory advanced by the boys that the
incendiary who had fired the house had also, in dramatic fashion,
saved the life of the youngest of the Sprigg brood, by carrying the
infant down from the second floor, and knotting the lilac shoots
about it so that it could not crawl into danger, was the most popular
byproduct of the fire. The story was in every one's mouth.
When he entered the dining-room at the hotel, he encountered
Ralston.

"Hello!" said the newspaper man. "I saw that you were registered
here. Allow me to welcome you to the only home a bachelor like
myself owns. Won't you sit at my table, to give the fiction some
verisimilitude?"

"Thank you. I shall be glad to."

"You will suspect that my whole-hearted hospitality has some

professional sub-stratum if I ask you at once how our friends the
Underwoods are, but I'll have to risk that. I assume that you have
seen them today."

"Yes, I have seen the doctor and Miss Underwood. They have met
the amazing charge against Henry with dignity and patience. I didn't
see Henry, and don't know what he may have to say."

"He'd better say nothing," said Ralston tersely. "It isn't a matter that
is bettered by talk."

"Do you think there will be anything more than talk? I have as yet
heard no suggestion of the slightest evidence against him."

"No, so far it is merely his bad reputation and the doctor's threat of
yesterday. Have you happened to hear of the lively times Henry gave
the town some six years ago? Property was burnt, things were
stolen, people were terrorized in all sorts of ways for an entire
summer. He must have had a glorious time."

"Was it proved against him?" asked Burton.

"The police never actually caught him, but they came so close upon
his tracks several times that they warned the doctor that they had
evidence against him. Then the disturbances stopped. That was
significant."
"I heard something about it, but I understood that the attacks were
mostly directed against the Underwoods themselves, and that the
anonymous letters written by the miscreant were particularly
directed against Henry. You don't suspect him of accusing himself!"

"But that's what he did. In fact, that was what first set the police to
watching him. Perhaps you haven't happened to hear of such things,
but there is a morbid form of egotism that makes people accuse
themselves of crimes just for the sake of the notoriety. The
handwriting of those letters was disguised, but the police were
satisfied that Henry wrote them. They watched him for weeks, and
though, as I say, they never caught him at anything really
incriminating, they came so close on his trail several times that he
evidently got scared and quit. Watson, the chief of police here, told
me about it afterwards, and he is not sensational. Quite the
contrary."

"How old was Henry at that time?"

"About nineteen."

"No wonder that he has grown into a morose man," said Burton
thoughtfully. "It would be hard for any one to keep sweet-tempered
against the pressure of such a public opinion."

Ralston shrugged his shoulders. "Public opinion is a brute beast, I

admit, but still Henry has teased it more than was prudent. However,
he has his picturesque sides. Did you hear about the rescue of the
Sprigg baby?"

"Being knotted in among the lilac bushes for safe keeping? Yes, I
have even seen the bushes."

"He probably knew that the others would be able to escape and so
looked after the only helpless one,--which seems to have been more
than the baby's mother did. That should count in his favor with a
jury."
"Well, they certainly can't bring him to trial unless they get more
evidence against him than they have at present," said Burton.

Ralston's reply was interrupted by a telephone call. He went to the

office to answer it, and when he returned his face was grave.

"It looks as though they really had got something like direct
evidence at last," he said. "They have found Henry Underwood's
knife under the window where the incendiary must have got in."

"Who found it?"

"A couple of schoolboys. They turned it over to the police. One of

my men has just got the story."

"Is it beyond question that it is Henry's?"

"Selby has identified it as the same knife that Henry had last night
when we were there. He was in the neighborhood, it seems, and
recognized the knife which the boys showed him on finding it. You
remember that Selby had Henry's knife in his hands last night, and
broke the point of the blade."

"Yes, I remember," said Burton. He was also recalling something

else,--a skulking figure slipping away from the spot where the knife
was found a very little later. "Doesn't it seem curious that the knife
was only discovered now, considering how many people have been
back and forth over the place all forenoon?"

"The knife seems to have been trodden into the earth by the crowd.
That's how it was not found sooner."

"It seems to be a case of Carthage must be destroyed," said Burton,

with some impatience. "Selby vowed this morning that he would find
evidence against Henry. He conveniently is at hand to identify a knife
as Henry's which he had in his own hands last night. It wouldn't
require very much imagination to see a connection there. Selby
hates Henry. Selby uses Henry's knife, and in the passion of the
moment slips it forgetfully into his own pocket. Then at the right
time he loses it at a place where its discovery will seem to implicate
Henry in a crime--"

"Sh!" warned Ralston, with a look of comic dismay.

But the warning came too late. Burton, startled, looked up in some
anxiety, and found Selby just back of him, glaring at him with a look
that was like a blow from a bludgeon. There was nothing less than
murder in his eye. But instead of speaking, he turned on his heel as
Burton half rose, and walked out of the room.

"I had no idea there was any one within earshot," said Burton, with
dismay in his face.

"He just came in by that door back of you. I had no time to warn
you."

"I'm a poor conspirator. Must I hunt Mr. Selby up, and apologize for
the liveliness of my imagination?"

Ralston looked grave. "You must do as you please, but I'd let the
cards lie as they fell. Selby has a violent temper,--"

"He certainly looked murderous."

"I can't understand why he walked off without saying anything. I

should have expected him to do something violent. I saw him beat a
horse nearly to death once because he was in a rage,--"

"That settles it. I shall not apologize. I'm glad he heard me."

Ralston laughed. "I'm glad you came to High Ridge! Do stay. We

may be able to afford you some entertainment. You should hear
Hadley! He is terrified to death for fear something will happen to him
next because he rashly made the remark that we are not safe in our
beds so long as the Underwoods are loose."

"What does he expect to happen?"

"Goodness knows!" Then, with a mischievous look, he added:

"Henry Underwood's methods are always original! It will probably be
a surprise."

Burton once more, to speak figuratively, threw his time-table into the
waste-basket. He certainly could not leave High Ridge while things
were in this chaotic condition. He must at least wait until something
definite happened.

He did not have long to wait.

CHAPTER IX

A POINTED WARNING

Burton did not know exactly what he expected to happen, or what

he would gain by staying, but something more than a sense of his
responsibility to Rachel made him want to see the thing through.
That suspicion should have buzzed so long about Henry Underwood
and nothing yet be proved could only be due to a combination of
luck and circumstances which could not be expected to continue
indefinitely. With Selby hot on the trail, the police were likely to have
some effective assistance. Malevolence is a great sharpener of the
wits.

Wouldn't it be possible to get Henry out of town? Had he gone far

enough in his hint to the doctor? Possibly if he saw Henry alone he
could convey a warning that would be understood. He determined to
see Henry.

But Henry was not at home. His disappointment in this information

might have been greater if it had not been conveyed by Miss
Underwood. He found it very easy to extend his inquiry into a call,
and when he finally rose to take his leave he was surprised to find
how time had flown. Philip was justified. The only thing to wonder at
was Philip's discrimination. He must have been caught merely by her
beauty, but even to appreciate her beauty at its right value was
more than he had given Philip credit for. But what was the outcome
to be? If the family were involved in a scandal, Philip was not the
man to stand by her. He would be dominated by Rachel's prejudices,
and Rachel would think the whole thing simply unspeakable. Yet
things had gone so far that it would be impossible for Philip to
withdraw without humiliating the girl,--and that, Burton now saw
clearly, was the one impossible thing. No, the only way out was to
stop the scandal from going further. Henry must be suppressed.

He had been revolving these thoughts as he walked the streets back

to the hotel, when all at once his eye was caught by the sign:

ORTON SELBY
CONTRACTOR AND BUILDER

It swung above the door of a prosperous looking place, and he

looked at the premises with interest. So this was where Mr. Selby did
business! As he looked, Mrs. Bussey came out of the office door, and
scuttled off down the street like a frightened animal finding itself out
of bounds. Possibly she was bringing some of her crippled son's
carving to his employer. The connection was obvious and the relation
was well understood, but somehow he did not like the idea of an
inmate of the Underwood house having this side relation with a man
who was an enemy. If anything were to be done to save Henry, it
must be done skilfully and promptly. The atmosphere of the place
was not favorable.

"There's a letter for you," the clerk said, as he handed Burton his
key.

Burton took it with some wonder. He was not expecting mail here.
But this letter had never gone through the mails. It was unstamped.
The envelope was addressed in a heavy blunt penciling that he had
seen before.

"Who left this?" he asked.

"I found it on the desk. I didn't see who left it there," the clerk said.

Burton did not open it until he reached his room. Then his
premonition was confirmed. The scrap of paper was covered with
the same heavy-lined writing that had been on the warning paper he
had found in the morning. The message read:

"You have had one warning. This is the second. The third will be the
last. You may as well understand that your help is not wanted."

And the clerk did not know how it came on his desk! There seemed
to be a very conspiracy of stupidity and malice in the place. He
examined it carefully. It was addressed to him by his full name,--and
his circle of acquaintances in High Ridge was extremely limited!
Henry had not been at home when he called there. The letter had
been left by some one who could come into the hotel and go out
without exciting comment,--then clearly a familiar figure in the town.
Burton's lips curled cynically. And the meaning of the message was
quite plain! His "help" was not wanted. Whom was he trying to help,
except the Underwoods?

He put the letter, envelope and all, into a large envelope which he
sealed and directed to himself. He did not wish to destroy it just yet,
neither did he wish to leave it where it would fall under another eye.

He dined in the public dining-room, without seeing either Ralston or

Selby, and, being in no mood to cultivate new acquaintances,
returned at once to his own room. He lit a cigar and got a book from
his bag and settled down to read himself into quietness; but his
mind would not free itself from the curious situation in which he
found himself, and presently he tossed the book aside and went to
the table where he had left the sealed letter addressed to himself. It
was gone. It had been abstracted from his locked room while he was
down at dinner.

Suddenly, as he stood there thinking, there was a sharp "ping," and

a pane of his window crashed into splinters and fell into the room. A
thud near his head caused him to turn, and there in the wall was a
small hole where a bullet had buried itself in the plaster. The third
warning!

Burton went down the stairs two steps at a time and out into the
street. The hotel was on the main street, and Burton's room on the
second floor looked toward the front. Across the street from the
hotel was a small park, full of trees and shadows. It was clear that
the shot through his front window had come from the direction of
this park, and also that it would be futile to try to discover any one
who might have been in hiding there. There were a hundred
avenues of unseen escape. It was already dark enough to make the
streets obscure.

Burton went in and reported the shooting to the clerk. Of the

missing letter he said nothing.

"Some boys must have been fooling around in the park with a gun,"
said the clerk, after viewing the scene of the disaster. "They might
have hit you, the idiots. I'll bet they are scared stiff by now,--and
serve them right."

"I wish you'd give me another room," said Burton abruptly.

"Why? You don't think they'll try to pot you again, do you?" smiled
the clerk.

"I prefer to take another room," said Burton stiffly.

"Oh, very well. The adjoining room is vacant, if that will suit you."

"Yes. You may have my things moved in. Or, hold on. I'll move them
in now, with your assistance, and you needn't say anything about
the change downstairs."

The clerk took some pains to make it evident that he was

suppressing a smile, but Burton did not particularly care what
opinion the young man might form of his courage. He had other
things in view.

His new room looked toward the side of the hotel. A driveway ran
below his windows, separating the hotel from a large private house
adjoining. Burton took a careful survey of his location, and when he
settled down again to read, he was careful to select a position which
was not in range with the windows.

He was beginning to take the High Ridge mystery seriously.

 CHAPTER X

MR. HADLEY PROVES A TRUE PROPHET

Burton had reason to congratulate himself on having formed a clear

idea of the location of his new room, for he had occasion to use that
knowledge in a hurry.

He had dropped into an early and heavy sleep, to make up for his
wakeful adventures of the night before, when he was awakened by a
succession of screams that seemed to fill the room with vibrating
terror. He was on his feet and into his clothes in less time than it
would have taken the average man to wake up. While he was
dressing another shriek showed that the sounds came from the
adjoining house which he had noticed across the driveway. He
dropped at once from his window to the roof of a bay window below
and thence to the ground. It was a woman shrieking. That was all
he knew. He stumbled across the driveway, and found his way to the
front door of the house. It was locked. Even while he was trying it, a
man from the street dashed up the steps and ran along the porch to
a side window, which he threw up.

"Lucky you thought of that," cried Burton, running to the spot. On

the instant he recognized Henry Underwood.

"For heaven's sake, if there is trouble here, keep away," he said

impetuously, forgetting everything except that this was Leslie's
brother.
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