The Mystery of the Fires

A few steps more, and they saw for themselves that it was only too true. The blackened trunks, the dry, scarred grass, and the faint smoky odor confirmed his statement. The beautiful cottage was gone forever. Nothing remained but the charred stones of its foundation.

“Boy, don’t I wish I’d been here!” exclaimed Freckles regretfully. “It must have been some fire. But they say nobody saw it. It was practically out when they discovered it.”

“Lucky that it was!” said Mrs. Gay. “Suppose ours had caught too!”

Mary Louise shuddered; such an idea was too dreadful to contemplate.

“Do you know any of the details, Freckles?” asked his mother, as the party turned back to the road again.

“No, I don’t. Nobody does. It just happened, at night, while everybody was over at a dance at the Royal Hotel across the river.”

“Maybe we’ll hear more about it at Flicks’. Come on, let’s hurry.”

They passed one bungalow on the way to the inn, which Mary Louise pointed out to Jane as belonging to the Partridges – all middle-aged people, she explained – so that her chum was not interested. Nobody over twenty-five was any use to Jane Patterson.

The inn, a large square frame building, was completely surrounded by porches on which tables were placed where people were already eating their dinners. Of the eight families at Shady Nook, all except one took their lunches and suppers at Flicks’. Besides them, there were at least half a dozen boarders. Roughly, Mary Louise estimated there were about thirty-five people at the inn.

They all seemed to know the Gays, for everybody was bowing and smiling as the little party opened the screen door of the front porch.

Mrs. Flick, a fat, good-natured woman of about fifty, came forward to welcome them.

“My, it’s good to see you all back again!” she exclaimed, with genuine pleasure. “But where is Mr. Gay?”

“He had to go to California on business,” explained Mrs. Gay. “So we brought Mary Louise’s friend, Jane Patterson, in his place. Mrs. Flick, this is Jane.”

“Happy to meet you, Miss Jane,” returned the landlady as she led the Gays to their accustomed table. When they were seated, she pulled up a chair beside them to talk for a few minutes with Mrs. Gay.

“Tell us about the Hunters’ bungalow!” begged Mary Louise immediately.

“There isn’t much to tell. Nobody knows much… Oh, here’s Hattie to take your order.” And the newcomers had to exchange greetings with the waitress, the daughter of a farmer named Adams who lived a couple of miles from Shady Nook.

When the order had been given, Mary Louise repeated her question.

“It happened a week ago – on a Saturday,” explained Mrs. Flick. “Mr. Clifford had four college boys visiting him, and they all went across the river that evening to a dance at the Royal Hotel. Mrs. Hunter went along with ’em. When they came back, the place was burned to the ground.”

“Didn’t anybody see the flames – or smell the smoke?”

“No. The wind was the other way from the hotel, and there wasn’t anybody at Shady Nook to notice. Everybody, except Pa and me, went to the dance. And we were sound asleep.”

Hattie came back with the soup, and Mrs. Flick rose from her chair. “I’ll see you later,” she said as she hurried into the house.

“It sounds very mysterious,” muttered Mary Louise.

“Oh, there’s probably some simple explanation,” replied Jane lightly. “We’ll have to ask Clifford Hunter. Where is he, Mary Lou? Do you see him?”

The other girl glanced hastily about the big porch and shook her head.

“Not here,” she answered. “But he may be inside. There’s another dining room in the bungalow.”

“This isn’t Clifford?” asked Jane, watching a tall, good-looking, dark-eyed young man coming out of the door.

Mary Louise turned around and smiled.

“No. That’s David McCall. He usually comes up just for two weeks’ vacation and stays here at Flicks’.”

A moment later the young man reached the Gays’ table and was introduced to Jane. But he merely nodded to her briefly: his eyes seemed to devour Mary Louise.

“I thought you’d never come, Mary Lou!” he exclaimed. “A whole week of my vacation is gone!”

“But you have another week, don’t you, David?”

“Yes. A measly seven days! And then another year to wait till I see you again!” His tone was not bantering, like the boys at home. David McCall was serious – too terribly serious, Mary Louise sometimes thought – about everything.

“May I come over to see you after supper?” he pleaded.

“Of course,” agreed Mary Louise lightly. “And then you can tell us about the fire. You were here when it happened?”

“No. I didn’t get here till Sunday. But I can tell you something about it, all right!”

Mary Louise’s eyes opened wide with interest.

“Somebody set it on fire – on purpose, you mean, David?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

The young man leaned over and whispered in her ear:

“Clifford Hunter himself!”

Mary Louise gasped in amazement. “But why?” she demanded.

“To collect the insurance!” was the surprising reply.

And, turning about, David McCall went back into the boarding house.

CHAPTER II

Clifford’s Story

“What did he say?” demanded both Jane and Freckles the moment David McCall was out of hearing distance.

Mary Louise leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“He said Cliff Hunter set the place on fire himself – to get the insurance. Now that his father is dead, the bungalow belongs to him.”

“How awful!” exclaimed Jane. “Do you believe that, Mary Lou?”