With the kindlings in position, he reached to the little shelf above him for a dry match—and knocked the match-box to the floor. Stooping to pick up the little igniters, he saw under the stove a scrap of paper. Mechanically he lifted it, glanced at it, saw only a blank space; folded it once, touched a match to it, and held it under the grate to start the fire. It blazed out bravely, the light of its own flame shining through it.
Suddenly he snatched it back and killed its blaze under a wet sole. The light had revealed writing inside the little sheet.
Straightening out the charred, muddy remnant, he read:
“—akes dont Sleep hear to Nite.”
Minutes passed while he squatted there, his whole mind concentrated on that belated message. Then he turned, inspected the floor, looked back at the stove, and nodded.
“Somebody slid this under the door yesterday after I left,” he deduced. “When the door opened later on, the wind blew it here, wrong side up. Now who left it? Not Lou Brackett—not Marry or her mother—they don’t know a thing about this. Uncle Eb? Steve? Not likely that they’d know what was to happen. And it surely wasn’t either of those man-hunters. H’m! Some one of these silent Trapsmen who likes me, maybe. Well, my unknown friend, I’m obliged to you. Call again some time.”
Again he studied the writing, the spelling, the paper—cheap wrapping, wrinkled and soiled.
“You haven’t much education and you write like a coal-heaver, but your heart’s true blue,” he added, folding the blackened tatter and pocketing it. “I’d surely like to know who you are. But if you’re as close-mouthed as everybody else around here you’d never admit that you wrote this, anyway. Well, let’s start this fire.”
Soon a hot fire was roaring up-chimney, coffee was coming to a boil, and he was arraying himself in the few dry articles of clothing he could find, while the wet garments and boots encircled the stove. After a rough-and-ready breakfast he hugged the stove himself, smoking and thinking.
Nat Oaks was a clumsy murderer indeed to leave his weapon behind. Perhaps the ha’nt had scared him—the open door indicated a sudden bolt from the place. For that matter, it was strange that he had ever dared to enter this house of fear at night. He must have been full of “Dutch courage” at the time.