Room Number 3, and Other Detective Stories. Анна Грин

a gulf of flame. The next moment she realised her mistake. A kindly voice was in her ear, a kindly hand was pressing a half-burned blanket about her.

      "Don't stare so," the voice said. "It is only people routing out Quimby. They say he set fire to the tavern himself, to hide his crime and do away with the one man who knew about it. I know that he locked me in because I—Oh, see! they've got him! they've got him! and with a gun in his hand!"

      The friendly hand fell; both women started upright panting with terror and excitement. Then one of them drew back, crying in a tone of sudden anguish, "Why, no! It's Jake, Jake!"

      Daybreak! and with it Doctor Golden, who at the first alarm had ridden out post-haste without waiting to collect his jury. As he stepped to the ground before the hollow shell and smoking pile which were all that remained to mark the scene of yesterday's events, he looked about among the half-clad, shivering men and women peering from the barns and stables where they had taken refuge, till his eyes rested on Hammersmith standing like a sentinel before one of the doors.

      "What's this? what's this?" he cried, as the other quickly approached. "Fire, with a man like you in the house?"

      "Fire because I was in the house. They evidently felt obliged to get rid of me somehow. It's been a night of great experiences for me. When they found I was not likely to perish in the flames they resorted to shooting. I believe that my forehead shows where one bullet passed. Jake's aim might be improved. Not that I am anxious for it."

      "Jake? Do you mean the clerk? Did he fire at you?"

      "Yes, while I was on the roof engaged in rescuing one of the women."

      "The miserable cur! You arrested him, of course, as soon as you could lay your hands on him?"

      "Yes. He's back of me in this outhouse."

      "And Quimby? What about Quimby?"

      "He's missing."

      "And Mrs. Quimby?"

      "Missing, too. They are the only persons unaccounted for."

      "Lost in the fire?"

      "We don't think so. He was the incendiary and she, undoubtedly, his accomplice. They would certainly look out for themselves. Doctor Golden, it was not for insurance money they fired the place; it was to cover up a crime."

      The coroner, more or less prepared for this statement by what Hammersmith had already told him, showed but little additional excitement as he dubiously remarked:

      "So you still hold to that idea."

      Hammersmith glanced about him and, catching more than one curious eye turned their way from the crowd now rapidly collecting in all directions, drew the coroner aside and in a few graphic words related the night's occurrences and the conclusions these had forced upon him. Doctor Golden listened and seemed impressed at last, especially by one point.

      "You saw Quimby," he repeated; "saw his face distinctly looking toward your room from one of the stable windows?"

      "I can swear to it. I even caught his expression. It was malignant in the extreme, quite unlike that he usually turns upon his guests."

      "Which window was it?"

      Hammersmith pointed it out.

      "You have been there? Searched the room and the stable?"

      "Thoroughly, just as soon as it was light enough to see."

      "And found——"

      "Nothing; not even a clue."

      "The man is lying dead in that heap. She, too, perhaps. We'll have to put the screws on Jake. A conspiracy like this must be unearthed. Show me the rascal."

      "He's in a most careless mood. He doesn't think his master and mistress perished in the fire."

      "Careless, eh? Well, we'll see. I know that sort."

      But when a few minutes later he came to confront the clerk he saw that his task was not likely to prove quite so easy as his former experience had led him to expect. Save for a slight nervous trembling of limb and shoulder—surely not unnatural after such a night—Jake bore himself with very much the same indifferent ease he had shown the day before.

      Doctor Golden surveyed him with becoming sternness.

      "At what time did this fire start?" he asked.

      Jake had a harsh voice, but he mellowed it wonderfully as he replied:

      "Somewhere about one. I don't carry a watch, so I don't know the exact time."

      "The exact time isn't necessary. Near one answers well enough. How came you to be completely dressed at near one in a country tavern like this?"

      "I was on watch. There was death in the house."

      "Then you were in the house?"

      "Yes." His tongue faltered, but not his gaze; that was as direct as ever. "I was in the house, but not at the moment the fire started. I had gone to the stable to get a newspaper. My room is in the stable, the little one high in the cock-loft. I did not find the paper at once and when I did I stopped to read a few lines. I'm a slow reader, and by the time I was ready to cross back to the house, smoke was pouring out of the rear windows, and I stopped short, horrified! I'm mortally afraid of fire."

      "You have shown it. I have not heard that you raised the least alarm."

      "I'm afraid you're right. I lost my head like a fool. You see, I've never lived anywhere else for the last ten years, and to see my home on fire was more than I could stand. You wouldn't think me so weak to look at these muscles."

      Baring his arm, he stared down at it with a forlorn shake of his head. The coroner glanced at Hammersmith. What sort of fellow was this! A giant with the air of a child, a rascal with the smile of a humourist. Delicate business, this; or were they both deceived and the man just a good-humoured silly?

      Hammersmith answered the appeal by a nod toward an inner door. The coroner understood and turned back to Jake with the seemingly irrelevant inquiry:

      "Where did you leave Mr. Quimby when you went to the cock-loft?"

      "In the house?"

      "Asleep?"

      "No, he was making up his accounts."

      "In the office?"

      "Yes."

      "And that was where you left him?"

      "Yes, it was."

      "Then, how came he to be looking out of your window just before the fire broke out?"

      "He?" Jake's jaw fell and his enormous shoulders drooped; but only for a moment. With something between a hitch and a shrug, he drew himself upright and with some slight display of temper cried out, "Who says he was there?"

      The coroner answered him. "The man behind you. He saw him."

      Jake's hand closed in a nervous grip. Had the trigger been against his finger at that moment it would doubtless have been snapped with some satisfaction, so the barrel had been pointing at Hammersmith.

      "Saw him distinctly," the coroner repeated. "Mr. Quimby's face is not to be mistaken."

      "If he saw him," retorted Jake, with unexpected cunning, "then the flames had got a start. One don't see in the dark. They hadn't got much of a start when I left. So he must have gone up to my room after I came down."

      "It was before the alarm was given; before Mr. Hammersmith here had crawled out of his room window."

      "I can't help that, sir. It was after I left the stable. You can't mix me up with Quimby's doings."

      "Can't we? Jake, you're no lawyer and you don't know how to manage a lie. Make a clean breast of it. It may help you and it won't hurt Quimby. Begin with the old lady's coming. What turned Quimby against her? What's the plot?"