“God knows!” was the reply.  “This here house has had mighty strange goings on of late times.  There was always something strange about it,—­something strange about Dunwody too!  There ain’t no doubt about that.  But I’m skeered, too—­him a-settin’ thah—­”

“But who was she, or it, whatever it was?  How come—­in—­in there?  How long has it been there?  What kind of goings on do you think there has been; in this here place, after all?” Mr. Jones was not satisfied.  They passed apart, muttering, exclaiming, wondering.

An hour later, Tallwoods mansion house was no more.  The last of cornice and pillar and corner post and beam had fallen into a smoldering mass.  In front of one long window a part of the heavy brick foundation remained.  Some bent and warped iron bars appeared across a window.

Unable to do anything, these who had witnessed such scenes, scarce found it possible to depart.  They stood about, whispering, or remaining silent, some regarding the smouldering ruin.  Once in a while a head was turned over shoulder toward a bowed form which sat close under a sheltering tree upon the lawn.

“He is taking it mighty hard,” said this or that neighbor.  “Lost nigh about everything he had in the world.”  But still his bowed form, stern in its sentinelship, guarded the something concealed behind the shadows.  And still they dared not go closer.

So, while Dunwody was taking that which had come to him, as human beings must, the gray of the dawn crawled up, up over the eastern edge of this little Ozark Valley.  After a time the day would come again, would look with franker eyes upon this scene of horror.  As the light grew stronger, though yet cold and gray, Dunwody, sighing, raised his head from his hands and turned.  There was a figure seated close to him—­a woman, who reached out a hand to take his scarred and burned ones in her own,—­a woman, moreover, who asked him no questions.

“Oh!  Oh God!” he began, for the first time breaking silence, his burned lips twitching.  “And you,—­why don’t you go away?  What made you come?”

She was silent for a time.  “Am I not your friend?” she asked, at length.

Now he could look at her.  “My friend!” said he bitterly.  “As if all the world had a friend for me!  How could there be?  But you saw that,—­this—?”

She made no answer, but only drew a trifle nearer, seeing him for the first time unnerved and unstrung.  “I saw something, I could not tell what—­when you came out.  I supposed—­”

“Well, then,” said he, with a supreme effort which demanded all his courage, as he turned toward her; “it all had to come out, somehow.  It is the end, now.”

She had brought with her a cup of water.  Now she handed it to him without comment.  His hand trembled as he took it.

“You saw that—?” He nodded toward the ruins.  All she did was to nod, in silence.  “Yes, I saw you come out—­with—­that—­in your arms.”