“Of course,” and Alan gave a sigh of relief as he murmured, “you don’t know how that has relieved me. I was beginning to get quite a horror of the unknown.”
“Of course it’s an uncanny case,” went on the Inspector, “but we’ll solve the problem yet.” Then he added laughingly, “I came down here prepared to suspect you two young gentlemen.”
“Us? Why?”
“Well, all these mysteries occurred after you arrived here, and I found you were none too popular with the natives.”
Desmond was indignant, but Vardon soon cooled him down. “See here, my dear sir. It’s my business to suspect everybody until I convince myself of his innocence. I know now I was mistaken—therefore I have been candid with you.”
The inquiries lasted some time, and every day brought some fresh disaster in its wake, filling the little village with misery and consternation, and the London editors’ pockets with gold. Sightseers and tourists came galore to the stricken place, and the carrier between Marshfielden and Kiltown reaped a small fortune from the curious. Every day the papers recounted some fresh loss—perhaps a cow or a pig, but often a human life. Women kept inside their homes, and even the men folk walked about in pairs, so that they could help each other should the “unknown” fall upon them.
The two boys still worked in the mine, and the men, realizing at last that they were not the instigators of all the trouble, admitted them, charily enough at first, into their lives again.
Alan and Desmond were quite happy with Mrs. Warren, but missed Mr. Winthrop’s kindly advice and friendship greatly. No trace of him had ever been found, and a younger man now took his parochial duties. Amateur detectives swarmed about the place, but the villagers in a body refused shelter to every one. Even the police officials themselves had to pitch tents in fields near by for their own use, as no bribe was high enough to obtain accommodation for them. Inspector Vardon was beginning to get disheartened; he had formed many theories during his stay, but upon minute investigation they all fell to pieces.
Walking away from the village one day, his hands behind his back and his head sunk upon his breast, deep in thought, he was suddenly awakened from his reverie by the sound of groans. Hedges were on either side of him, but he vaulted over the one from whence the sounds came.
There lay a sheep, its wool burnt away and its body scorched. He examined the helpless creature in pity, and the poor beast breathed his last. He was distinctly puzzled. There was no sign of fire anywhere at all—the poor animal alone had been hurt.