“So,” laughed his uncle as John entered the library, “you have burned down the school and are on a holiday—­you and Rivers.”

John grinned.  “Yes, sir.”

“Sit down.  We are discussing that fire.  You were the first to see it, John.  It was about eleven—­”

“Yes, uncle, it struck as I left the hall.”

“No one else was in sight, and in fact, Rivers, no one in Westways is out of bed at ten.  Both you and John are sure the fire began outside where the wood was piled under a shed.”

“Yes,” said Rivers.  “It was a well dried winter supply, birch and pine.  The shed, as you know, was alongside of the kitchen door.  I went over the house as usual about nine, after old Susan, the maid, had gone home.  I covered the kitchen fire with ashes—­a thing she is apt to neglect.  I went to bed at ten and wakened to hear the glass crack and to smell smoke.  The kitchen lay under my bedroom.  I fear it was a deliberate act of wickedness.”

“That is certain,” said Penhallow, “but who could have wanted to do it.  You and I, Rivers, know every one in Westways.  Can you think of any one with malice enough to make him want to bum a house and risk the possibility of murder?”

Rivers turned his lean pale face toward the Squire, unwilling to speak out what was in the minds of both men.  John listened, looking from one serious face to the other.

“It seems to me quite incredible,” said Penhallow, and then Rivers knew surely that the older man had a pretty definite belief in regard to the person who had been concerned.  He knew too why the Squire was unwilling to accuse him, and waited to hear what next Penhallow would say.

“It makes one feel uncomfortable,” said Penhallow, and turning to John, “Who was first there after you came?”

“Billy, sir, I think, even before the men from the Wayne, but I am not sure.  I told him to pound on the doors and wake up the town.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Oh, just his usual silliness.”

“Was Peter Lamb at the fire?”

“I think not.  His mother opened a window and said that she could not waken Peter.  It was Billy told me that.  I told Billy, I supposed Peter was drunk.  But he wasn’t yesterday afternoon—­I saw him.”

“Oh, there was time enough for that,” remarked Rivers.

Then the two men smoked and were silent, until at last the Squire said, “Of course, you must stay here, Rivers, and you know how glad we shall be—­oh, don’t protest.  It is the only pleasant thing which comes out of this abominable matter.  Ann will like it.”

“Thank you,” returned Rivers, “I too like it.”

John went away to look at the ruin left by the fire, and the Squire said to his friend, “As I am absent in the mornings at the mills, you may keep school here, Rivers,” and it was so settled.

Before going out Penhallow went to his wife’s little room on the farther side of the hall.  He had no desire to hide his conclusions from her.  She saw how grave he looked.  “What is it, James?” she asked, looking up from her desk.