Destroyed it was within an incredibly short space of time.

From the moment when the garage burst into flame Lady Selina behaved with fortitude, directing operations and exhibiting amazing pluck and resource. The most valuable furniture, the pictures, china and plate were carried to the farther end of the topiary garden. Despite the entreaties of Cicely, the lady of the manor was almost the last to leave the house. As she did so a tongue of flame licked her arm. Unmindful of this, she commanded a general retreat, a withdrawal to a slight eminence in the garden, whence the last act of the tragedy was witnessed. Here, to her satisfaction, she learned that nobody except herself had been injured. Already Cicely had dispatched George Ball in search of Grimshaw. Lady Selina, however, made light of her scorching, concerned only with the housing of her establishment. It was settled that Cicely and she would go to the Vicarage for the night. The worthy Goodrich hovered about her, scant of breath but full of sympathy and warm with indignation because the dreadful word “arson” lay pat on every lip except his own.

Towards the end, after the roof had fallen in, the rain poured down. Lady Selina gazed sadly at the ruins of her home, saying nothing. Cicely clutched her.

“Come, mother, you will be wet through.”

Lady Selina yielded at length to importunity. She passed, erect, through her people, and took the path to the village, pausing to speak to the landlord of the Chandos Arms, to whom the board and lodging of her servants had been entrusted.

“I will see to it myself that all is in order.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Then, resolutely, she turned her back upon all that was left of the home to which she had come as a bride. In silence, leaning upon her daughter’s arm, she walked wearily, spent by her physical exertions. Goodrich followed, and others. Burdens greater than those of fatigue weighed heavily upon her. By the time she had reached the tree upon the green, the first tropical downpour was over.

“I must rest a moment,” she said faintly.

“Are you in pain, mother?”

“Of course I am, but that is of no consequence.”

“When will Mr. Grimshaw be here?”

Lady Selina sat down, gasping a little. Nicodemus tried to stand up.

“Sit you down, old friend,” commanded Lady Selina.

“A very sad mishap, my lady.”

“Very.”

Then, for the first time, she heard the word that was distressing the parson. The Ancient, feeling as if he were enthroned beside the queen regnant, and regarded as a trusty councillor, remarked solemnly:

“Garge Ball do say ’twas arson.”

Instantly Lady Selina became alert. She sat up in every sense of the phrase, alert, interrogative, almost excited.

“Arson?” she repeated sharply. “Impossible!”

Nicodemus wagged his hoary head. This was his great moment. To rise to it adequately became a sort of obsession.

“I knows what I knows,” he affirmed positively.

“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed the parson.

Lady Selina spoke gently to the old man.

“Tell me what you know, Nicodemus.”

Thus encouraged, the Ancient expanded visibly, raising his voice so that all and sundry might hear him.

“’Tis ondeniably true that your ladyship has enemies in this yere parish.”

Probably he expected protest. Lady Selina said quietly:

“So I discovered yesterday.”

“I bain’t one to carry tales, my lady.”

It says much for Lady Selina Chandos that this affirmation provoked her humour. In the familiar tone that so endeared her to her dependents, she bantered the old gaffer:

“That won’t do, Nicodemus. We have gossiped together a score of times. Any service you can render me will not be forgotten, I can assure you.”

“Ah-h-h! I did hear wicked talk about burning down this village.”

“Where?”

Goodrich, as a Justice of the Peace, was constrained to interrupt:

“Dear lady,” he said warningly, “may I suggest that any inquiry ought to take place at another time, and in a more private place?”

Slightly irritated, conscious, perhaps, that Nicodemus might not speak at another time and in another place with entire frankness, Lady Selina said tartly:

“Please allow me to be the judge of that.” In a more conciliatory tone she addressed Nicodemus: “Where did you hear this talk?”

“In cottage yonder.” He pointed to Farleigh’s house.

“From whom?”

“From Aggie Farleigh and John Exton.”

“Quite so.”

Cicely interrupted eagerly:

“Mother, you don’t—you can’t think either of them capable of——”

Lady Selina cut her short.

“My dear, long ago I thought of them as firebrands, and firebrands they are.”

Goodrich, much perturbed, but ever the peacemaker, suggested blandly:

“If you are rested sufficiently, Lady Selina, shall we go on to my house? Another heavy shower impends.”

“Rested! ... Do you think that rest is possible till I have got to the bottom of this?” She raised her voice again, glancing round at the circle of familiar faces, some of them not looking too friendly, inasmuch as Agatha and John were favourites in the village. Even to the rustic mind, prone to leap hastily to wrong conclusions, this indictment of two persons on so grave a charge, an indictment unsupported by evidence, seemed unjust and intolerable. A faint murmur of protest was heard.

“Does anybody present,” continued Lady Selina, “know anything that would throw light on this dreadful charge of arson? If so, I ask him or her to speak.”

Stimson stepped forward. He was hardly recognisable. The staid, respectable butler had covered himself with glory and grime in a beloved mistress’s service.

She smiled graciously upon him.

“Yes, my lady. I saved all the plate, every bit of it, my lady.”

“Oh, Stimson! We could have spared that ugly Early-Victorian tea-service. Well, well, you faithful soul, do you know anything?”

“There is this clue, my lady. We found it on the grass near the garage.”

He held out a silver match-box.

“A match-box?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She examined it carefully. The parson, pince-nez on nose, took it gently from her hand. Then, with the air of Sherlock Holmes, he said portentously:

“It bears a German inscription. I draw the obvious inference—it was made in Germany.”

The crowd sighed with relief as the parson continued in the tones ordinarily sacrosanct to the lectern and pulpit:

“I infer more. One of our enemies, some alien, possibly, who has escaped internment, must have committed this terrible crime.”

The crowd hummed approval. Lady Selina, more alert than ever, observed derisively:

“Your inference will hold water, Mr. Goodrich, if any alien has been seen about my premises.”

Goodrich replied hastily:

“’M’yes—a question pat to the point.”

“Many persons,” continued Lady Selina, “carry objects like match-boxes, made in Germany.”

At this Agatha came forward. Timothy had gone back into his cottage as soon as he saw Lady Selina approaching. Agatha had remained near the cottage gate, looking anxiously for her lover.

“May I look at the match-box?” she asked quietly.

“Certainly.”

It was handed to her. The crowd edged in closer. Agatha said positively:

“This match-box belongs to John Exton. I struck a match on it not an hour ago, here, on this very spot. I—I had it in my hand. I must have dropped it or left it on this bench. I can’t remember returning it to—to its owner.”

A dramatic silence followed, broken by Goodrich, no longer the parson but the magistrate.

“You testify to that, Agatha Farleigh?”

“Testify?” she repeated blankly.

“It is my duty to warn you that anything said by you now may be used against you later.”

“What does this all mean?” groaned Cicely.

Her mother answered grimly: “It means something very terrible, child.”

As she spoke, Grimshaw, mounted upon the constable’s bicycle, was seen approaching.

“Mr. Grimshaw at last!” exclaimed Cicely. As he dismounted she said to him nervously: “Mother has been burnt.”

“Scorched, my dear; scorched.”

“It’s a very nasty burn,” said Cicely.

Grimshaw insisted upon instant examination. He unstrapped his bag, opened it, and took out a pair of scissors. Deftly he slit up the sleeve, saying:

“Ball could not tell me what was saved.”

“The servants saved themselves,” said Lady Selina. “We saved the more valuable miniatures and my Chelsea. There is a pantechnicon van-load of furniture on the lawns.”

Grimshaw nodded, intent on his work. He pulled a broad bandage from his bag and made an impromptu sling, adding professionally:

“This must be dressed properly elsewhere. Where are you going, Lady Selina?”

“To my house,” said Goodrich.

“In five minutes,” murmured Lady Selina. Obviously she was in pain, but her eyes rested tranquilly upon Grimshaw. She appreciated the delicacy of his touch, and said so. Then she addressed Agatha coldly:

“The match-box, please.”

Agatha returned it, bursting out vehemently:

“I know what you think, my lady, but it’s simply impossible. I wish Sergeant Exton were here to defend himself. As for me,” she drew herself up with dignity, “I have been in attendance upon my aunt, as Martha Giles can testify.”

She glanced at the parson, using the word scornfully.

“Johnnie Exton be here,” exclaimed one of the crowd.

The villagers made way for John, who approached Agatha. The young man was dishevelled and his khaki was scorched and stained by smoke. Out of a grimy face his eyes sparkled brilliantly.

“Where have you been, John?” asked Agatha.

“Helping up at the Hall.”

“Helping?” repeated Lady Selina.

“I did what a one-armed man could, my lady.”

“Of course you did,” said Agatha. “No one who knows you,” she added defiantly, “would question that.”

Lady Selina, bent upon conducting the inquiry in her own way, said sharply:

“Where were you, sergeant, when the fire broke out?”

“I was in the park.”

“In my park—but why?”

“There is a right of way through the park, my lady.”

“True. Now, Nicodemus, speak up, speak the whole truth? Did you or did you not hear Sergeant Exton and Agatha say that my village ought to be burnt?”

The Ancient, never forgetting doles, piped up valiantly:

“I heard ’un, my lady; I heard more, too.”

“I did say that a score of cottages ought to be burnt, including Timothy Farleigh’s. And what of it? It’s true. Let the whole truth come out. Nicodemus Burble heard more. What? I’ll tell you. He heard Timothy Farleigh, a man crazy with misery, say that the Hall ought to be burnt first.”

The crowd, inarticulate with astonishment, buzzed like a swarm of bees. Grimshaw, thinking first of his patient, anxious to keep her quiet, suggested an immediate withdrawal to the Vicarage.

“Not yet,” replied Lady Selina firmly. Perhaps she was conscious of latent sympathy from her people. In a very few she may have divined hostility. She addressed the parson.

“You know, Mr. Goodrich, what was said by Sergeant Exton when I had to give his father notice to leave his farm?”

“I grieve to say I do,” answered Goodrich.

“Agatha Farleigh, here, whom Sergeant Exton is going to marry, lays the death of the two Farleigh children at my door. And now my house is burnt.”

She betrayed no excitement, no animosity. Slowly she held up the match-box.

“Is this yours?”

John stared at it.

Lady Selina continued impassively:

“It was picked up near the garage. An hour ago it was in your possession.”

“It was,” John admitted. “But I haven’t been near the garage.”

Goodrich said impatiently:

“All this is irregular. At the same time, matters having gone so far, I will take it upon myself to ask you a question, sergeant: Will you tell us exactly where you happened to be when the fire broke out?”

“I happened to be near the house.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

The villagers were tremendously impressed. Of all now present, and many others had sauntered up, possibly Exton and Lady Selina alone remained self-possessed. Agatha said emotionally:

“Miss Cicely—you—you don’t accuse my John? You—can’t!”

A sob broke from her. As Cicely, on the edge of tears, did not answer quickly, Agatha turned impetuously to Grimshaw.

“I appeal to you, Mr. Grimshaw.”

Lady Selina nodded majestically:

“I shall be glad to hear what you think, Mr. Grimshaw.”

“I think, Lady Selina, that John Exton is innocent of this charge.”

“Thank you, sir,” said John.

“Is that thought,” said Goodrich, “grounded on some evidence not yet forthcoming?”

Grimshaw replied quietly: “You see, I know the man. Does not character weigh with you, Mr. Goodrich?”

“Of course.”

Lady Selina, looking earnestly at Grimshaw, continued:

“But, unhappily, this young man’s character as—as an agitator, as a stirrer-up of strife, is against him.”

“To my knowledge,” Grimshaw replied firmly, “he has been a good son and a good soldier. Doesn’t that appeal to you, Lady Selina?”

“It does. You say, Mr. Grimshaw, that you know Sergeant Exton. Has he, in talk with you, ever shown any personal animus against me?”

Grimshaw betrayed his uneasiness, conscious once again that his hand was being forced by Fate, that, against his own convictions and principles, he was constrained to take, seemingly, the side of Authority. He hesitated, and then answered quickly:

“Well, yes; he has, but——”

John Exton cut him short.

“I’m not ashamed of what I said. I told Doctor Grimshaw, my lady, that I wanted to see you—downed.”

“Ah.”

The fact that she made no comment strengthened her case enormously in the eyes and ears of those who might still be counted loyal subjects. On the other hand, John’s handsome admission, his frank countenance, his soldierly deportment made a profound impression. Cecily, torn in two, exclaimed vehemently:

“It’s incredible! You, a brave man, a soldier of the King, actually wanted to down a woman!”

Lady Selina, with uplifted hand, imposed silence. Goodrich delivered his verdict:

“I am grieved—grieved. Where is the constable, George Ball?”

“Here, sir.”

Goodrich addressed him magisterially:

“If a constable has reasonable ground for suspecting that a felony has been committed, he can arrest the person so suspected without a warrant.”

Agatha interposed hotly:

“The grounds are unreasonable.”

“Are they, Mr. Grimshaw?”

Lady Selina’s smooth, soft voice silenced the murmuring crowd. Breathlessly Grimshaw’s answer was awaited. He replied promptly:

“Not altogether.”

“Thank you.”

For the second time, using him as a sort of court of final appeal, she had triumphed, and triumph informed her tones. She continued, as quietly as before:

“I put it to you, as an impartial observer, as a comparative stranger to this village and its ways, is it unreasonable to give this man into custody pending a proper enquiry?”

“Perhaps not.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement. It was impossible to interpret that buzzing. Grimshaw continued professionally:

“As your medical attendant, Lady Selina, I must insist upon dressing your arm at once. I will go to Dr. Pawley’s dispensary to fetch what is necessary, and rejoin you at the Vicarage.”

He bowed and went his way. Lady Selina stood up, surveying her people.

“Quite obviously, Mr. Grimshaw gave an honest opinion against a kindly wish to help an old acquaintance.”

George Ball, knowing instinctively the temper of the villagers, and divining trouble, said tentatively:

“Be I to take John Exton into custody, my lady?”

“Yes.”

George Ball, attempting to justify himself before his fellow-villagers, added deprecatingly:

“It do seem as if the Hall couldn’t, so to speak, set fire to itself. All the same, my lady——”

“Well?”

“I be only parish constable, my lady, and if I exceeds my dooty I be liable to lose my job.”

“I will assume all responsibility,” the lady of the manor assured him. Thus fortified, Ball turned to John.

“I be bound to ax you to come along wi’ me.”

Sergeant Exton answered cheerfully:

“That’s all right, George. You can’t help yourself. Aggie, dear——”

She flung herself into his embrace, sobbing bitterly.

“You didn’t do it, Johnnie! You didn’t do it!”

“Bless your heart! I didn’t.”

“It’s begun to rain again,” said Cicely.

She took her mother’s arm. Lady Selina nodded, too tired to speak. In silence, followed by the parson, mother and daughter passed through the gaping villagers.