Farley, who is foreman of one department, and lives almost in the shadow of the building, who was first on the spot, is much puzzled. "There is something wrong about all this," he declares. "The fire broke out in four separate places. That was no accident!"
The morning soon dawns. The smoke dissipates slowly, and they find the damage very small to what it might have been, but the signs of incendiarism are unmistakable. Grandon goes carefully through the place, searches every nook and corner, but discovers no trace of Wilmarth. Then he despatches a messenger for Eugene and the two gentlemen still at Grandon Park.
Meanwhile he walks up and down the office in deep thought. It seems easy enough to tell a straightforward story, but what if Wilmarth should deny all participation in it, treat it as a dream or a false accusation on his part? He was here alone, he cannot deny that, and he has no means of proving that Wilmarth was here with him. He found the office door locked on the outside, as he supposed he should. No one could believe for a moment that he would set fire to the place when he had just disposed of it to his advantage, and yet not made a complete legal transfer, but never was a man placed in more confusing circumstances. Shall he attack Wilmarth with the power of the law? He is his sister's husband, and it will make a family scandal just when he believed he had all difficulties settled, and how is he to prove his charge? Wilmarth is not a man to leave a weak point if he can help. His plans have all been nicely laid. Floyd feels certain now that he did enter the office, attracted perhaps by a gleam of light. What if he had not wakened until the fire was under full headway! Locked in, confused, his very life might have been the forfeit, and he shudders. He is not tired of life at three-and-thirty, if some events are not shaped quite to his liking.
He washes up and tidies himself a little, but his coat he finds rather a wreck after the deadly struggle. He sends one of the men out for some breakfast, and shortly after that is despatched, the Grandon carriage drives up, its occupants more than astonished. The brief alarm in the night has not reached them.
Floyd leads them into the office and the door is closed. He relates his singular story with concise brevity, and the little group listen in amazement.
"The man has been a villain all the way through," declares Eugene, with virtuous severity. "He did actually convince me last summer that St. Vincent's plan would prove a complete failure, and that the business would be nothing, yet he made me what I considered generous offers for so poor an establishment. But for Floyd," he admits, with great magnanimity, "I should have played into his hands."
"I think," Floyd announces, after every one has expressed frank indignation, "that for a day or two we had better keep silent. I will have the damage repaired, and now, it seems, having him at your mercy, you can compel him to a bargain," and he glances at Murray.
They agree upon this plan and go over the building. The machinery is very slightly damaged; the stock, not being inflammable, has been injured more by water, but they find rags and cotton-waste saturated with kerosene. Once under good headway the building would surely have gone.
"Mr. Grandon," and a lad comes rushing up-stairs, "there is some one to see you in a great hurry, down here in a wagon."
It is Marcia's pony phaeton, and two ladies are in it, one a Mrs. Locke, Marcia's neighbor.