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قراءة كتاب The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery

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‏اللغة: English
The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery

The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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phalanxes and the homeward-bound stream far outnumbered that flowing toward the still vigorous but dull-red and smoke-colored sheet of fire.

Eleven was just ringing when a young man rushed up to the lines stretched across Cazenove street at its junction with Meridian, and half by force, half by entreaty, breasted his way to the rope.

"I wish to pass, officer; my property is among those burned," he said.

"Your property?" echoed the policeman, a phlegmatic-looking fellow. The youth was not over 21 and Higgins had heard this story at least a dozen times within an hour. His orders were to throw the burden of proof in every case upon the petitioner.

"Yes; that is to say, not mine, but my uncle's. I am a nephew of Prof. Arnold and lived with him."

The slight correction which the young man made in his explanation evidently prejudiced his cause in the policeman's eyes—as if confusion were a mark peculiar to the glib kinsmen of Ananias. The youth had slipped under the rope and the crowd craned near, expecting an altercation.

"Get back there!" came the sharp rebuke, and a heavy hand was laid on the young man's breast, gathering up the lapels of his coat and half his vest bosom.

"But my uncle's house is burned, I tell you," he protested.

"Outside!"

"I am also a member of the press."

"Outside the ropes!"

"You're a bully," cried the young citizen, pushing sturdily on his own side and fairly holding his own. "Sergeant!"

The sergeant in charge had come over when he saw trouble brewing and stepped closer at this personal appeal.

"I think you must know me. My name is Floyd. I am a nephew of Prof. Arnold, in whose house the fire is said to have started. Am I refused permission to pass the ropes?"

"I'm afraid there's little to be seen of your uncle's house, Mr. Floyd," quietly answered the sergeant, who knew him. "This gentleman is all right, Higgins."

Higgins nonchalantly moved a few steps off, doubtless reflecting that he had only erred on the side of vigilance.

"But the servants—do you know where they may be found?"

"Try opposite. They're still at home. The wind was the other way, you see."

The young man sped up to the site of his former home. One look at the black ruin sickened though it fascinated him. In that old-fashioned house on the hill he had lived since infancy. Indeed, he had known no other home, no other parent save the eccentric old professor, his uncle. On Thursday, the body of Prof. Arnold had been carried away and laid in another resting-place. Tonight the old home smoldered before him, a heap of blackening embers, wearing no vestige of resemblance to its beloved familiar contours. But little time was given him for meditation now.

"Oh, Mr. Robert!"

He felt his hands seized in a warm, strong grasp, which did not quickly loosen.

"Oh, Mr. Robert!" repeated Bertha, drawing him into the doorway of the bake-shop and beginning to cry. "I thought you were burned in the fire. Where have you been all the time?"

"Only at Miss Barlow's. How did it happen?"

"It was soon after you left. The library took fire. I heard Sire barking and ran down to find out what was the matter, when what should I see but the room full of smoke."

"Ellen is safe, I hope?"

"Ellen went out. We haven't seen her yet. But if it hadn't been for Sire——"

They had gone inside the shop and the great St. Bernard jumped up and fondled his young master joyfully, but again with that strange undertone in his barking, as of one who had a tale to tell, if only stupid men folk could understand it.

"What ails you, Sire? Poor fellow! Old master gone; house burned down; getting old yourself. Yes, it's too bad. Good dog."

Sire whined at the sympathy in Robert Floyd's voice.

"Nothing was saved?" asked the youth.

"Not a stitch. But I don't mind if I was only sure Ellen——"

"Are you really anxious about Ellen? I thought she went out?"

"Oh, yes. It was her day out. But when she came back to supper she ought to have looked for me."

"Perhaps she did hunt for you and missed you, or went to her sister's in the confusion. You haven't found a lodging yet yourself for the night?"

"I suppose I'll have to go to my aunt's."

"Mrs. Christenson's. That's the place for you; and take good care of Sire until I call for him."

"Go with Bertha, Sire," he commanded, but the dog had to be dragged away, the tall Swedish maiden laying her hand on his collar.

"Well, your house, as the little girl said in the story, presents a remarkable disappearance."

Robert turned toward the stranger who was so facetious out of season. Inspector McCausland had just parted company with the fire marshal and was sauntering carelessly about.

"How did it happen? Do they know yet?" asked Robert, anxiously.

"I don't," answered McCausland. "Possibly so"—he filliped off the lighted end of his cigar, but it fell into a black moat alongside of the curbstone and went out with a gentle hiss.

"But none of us smoked."

"Perhaps it was of incendiary origin," said the detective. "There have been some strange fires lately."

"It is a mystery," answered Robert Floyd.


CHAPTER III.

SEQUELAE.

"You don't care for 'The Headless Horseman'?" said Robert to little Elsie Barlow, who was sitting on his knee in Emily's parlor. "Which of the stories do you like best of all?"

Elsie shut up her book of fairy tales, trying to think.

"You ask mamma which she likes best, Bessie or me?"

"Oh, Elsie, that's dodging," laughed Robert.

"No, 'tisn't dodging," protested Elsie. "'Cause mamma don't like either of us best; and I like 'The House of Clocks' and 'The Ball of Gold' just the same as each other."

"'The Ball of Gold'—what a charming title! Tell me that. It can't help being pretty."

"Well, you see there was a great, tall giant," began Elsie, hunting diligently for his picture in the wonder-book, "and this giant had a ball of gold that rested on a saucer in his castle, just like an egg in its cup. It was round-shaped like a crystal and weighed, oh, ever so many tons. See, there he is."

"Ugh!" Robert shuddered realistically. "What a monster!"

"And oh, so cruel! Every knight that rode by he would challenge him to battle, and the giant would cut off his head and hang them around his belt, and the bodies he would throw to three great, savage dogs. That was all they had to eat."

"What cannibals!"

"Here comes Emily," said Mrs. Barlow, who had been rocking in her chair. The young lady wore a water lily at her bosom and was reading from the Sunday Beacon.

"Six lives lost, Robert," she cried, "and the Beacon has started a subscription for their families."

"But I haven't finished my story," pouted forgotten little Elsie.

"Put it away, dear," said her mother, riding roughshod over the child's wishes, as the best of mothers do. Perhaps these crosses are educational.

The following list printed in heavy capitals was the first paragraph Emily read:

KILLED.
MARY LACY, salesgirl.
FLORENCE F. LACY, bookkeeper.
ALEXANDER WHITLOVE, elevator boy (colored).
OSCAR SCHUBERT, ladder man.
An unknown girl.

"At midnight," she continued, reading aloud, "Rosanna Moxom, a lace-worker, was reported dying, and the injuries of nearly a dozen others are serious enough to excite alarm."

"Did you say the Beacon has started a relief fund for their families?" asked Robert.

"Yes, and headed it with $1,000."

Robert inwardly resolved to make the total $1,025.

"Most of those dead or likely to die," continued Emily, while Robert held Elsie and Mrs.

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