The constable accordingly took his departure, marching the younger Gregg with him.
The fire had by this time gained great headway.
It leaped in great crackling volumes from the roof, and burst through the sides in fiery forks. The whole interior was a seething furnace of lurid flame, and timbers were already beginning to fall in.
"Where is Silly Sue?" some one cried, and the question went from mouth to mouth. "She sometimes sleeps in the old house."
"Silly Sue, as you call her, is dead," Mr. Thornton announced.
"Dead!" the villagers exclaimed, gathering around him—"Silly Sue dead?"
"Yes, dead, and lies in the shanty down the road, belonging to Hal Hartly, who has gone to some neighboring town to arrange for her burial!" the speculator said. Then he related what he knew concerning the brutal whipping she had had, at the hands of Gregg senior.
A murmur of indignation ran through the crowd as he spoke, and though some of the men did not cry out against the guilty man, the majority were greatly excited.
"Do you swear this is true?" one of the villagers cried, angrily.
"Ay—swear it a hundred times, if you like. If you have any doubts on the matter, it will take but a few moments to examine the poor child's form, upon which welts and bloody cuts yet remain to be seen."