The tool house had burned to the ground, there being no means at hand to extinguish the fire. The glare of the conflagration had called out several dozens of people from Darbyville and the vicinity, several of whom had stumbled upon me as I lay in the clearing.
"What's the matter, Roger?" asked Larry Simpson, a young man who kept a bookstore in the town.
"The matter is that I nearly lost my life in that fire," I replied.
"How did you come here?"
As briefly as I could I related my story, leaving out all references to my personal affairs and the finding of Nicholas Weaver's statement. At present I considered it would do no good to disclose what I knew on those points.
"I think I saw that tramp yesterday," said Larry after I had finished. "He bought a sheet of paper and an envelope in my store, and then asked if he could write a letter there."
"And did he?" I asked in curiosity.
"Yes. At first I hated to let him do it,—he looked so disreputable,—but then I thought it might be an application for a position, and so told him to go ahead."
"Who did he write to? do you know?"
"Somebody in Chicago, I think."