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.