George Ball, the village constable, joined the group under the tree, and dismounted from his bicycle. He was a heavy, good-natured man, ordinarily lethargic. He spoke with authority:

“Is Doctor Grimshaw here?”

“No, he bain’t, Garge. What be wantin’ doctor for, hey?”

“I dun’no. Miss Cicely told me to fetch ’un quick. Old Hall be done for. That’s sartain.”

A quarter of an hour at least had elapsed before George appeared. During that time, men and boys had been seen hurrying up to the Hall. Nicodemus, unable to budge, had remained under the tree. No rain had fallen as yet, but the storm was coming nearer, and the intermittent lightning became more vivid with each succeeding flash. From the top of the tree Nick’s eerie laughter floated earthwards.

“Anybody burned?” asked the Ancient.

George Ball couldn’t be sure of this. He furnished a few details, avidly swallowed. The fire had started in the garage, and thence spread to the house; all the servants were safe, and busy rescuing pictures and furniture. He concluded on a high, nerve-shattering note:

“’Tis arson, I reckons.”

“What be arson?” asked Martha Giles.

“Settin’ other folks’ houses afire,” replied the constable. Noting a derisive smile on Timothy’s face, he asked officially:

“Why ain’t you up at Hall—helpin’?”

Timothy replied defiantly:

“Because I bain’t.”

George Ball went on:

“Arson it seems to be, accordin’ to Wilson. He told me in servants’ hall that he had left the garage not five minutes afore fire started. Positive, he was, that all was snug. In my quiet way I spoke o’ cigarettes, but Fred Wilson don’t smoke terbacker in no form. And he swears that no match was lighted by him this blessed afternoon. Bag o’ mystery this be, because my lady had no enemies in these parts.”

“Liar!” remarked Timothy.

The astonished constable glared at him.

“What you say?”

“I said, liar. I be her enemy.”

George, utterly dazed, wiped his forehead, ejaculating:

“Queer talk, I must say.”

To this Timothy replied savagely:

“You’ll be wiser afore you’re older.”

Nicodemus interrupted sharply:

“Timothy Farleigh’ll be dead afore he’s wise at all Now, Garge, I minds me that Doctor Grimshaw walked off Wilverley way. If that bit o’ news be worth a tankard, don’t ’ee forget it, my good man.”

“You might ha’ said as much five minutes ago.”

He mounted his bicycle and sped off.

Nicodemus, active of mind and unduly elated because ale had impaired underpinning, instead of understanding, was now the centre of a small group of women, children and gaffers. Everybody else, of course, was watching the fire in the Hall gardens, or helping to remove furniture. From the first none dared even to hope that so old a house, so heavily timbered, could escape being burnt to the ground.

Martha Giles said mournfully:

“Her ladyship, pore dear soul, ’ll be lacking shelter.”

By the luck of things, she addressed this innocent remark to Timothy, who remained at his wicket gate, sullenly rejoicing over this great calamity. He replied harshly:

“Shelter? Aye. Not under my roof.”

Nicodemus, trembling with rage, exclaimed:

“’Twon’t be your roof much longer, you damned fool. You be headin’ straight for porehouse, you be. No part wine there, and the vittles so ontasty as never was.”

Agatha, noting the angry faces glaring at her uncle, said entreatingly:

“Better go in, uncle.”

“No,” said Timothy, “not till the house of that woman be utterly destroyed.”