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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 a.s.sembled 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 s.p.a.ce 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 m.u.f.fled explosion from the interior of the building marked the pa.s.sing 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 p.r.o.nounced.

"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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sers-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?"