He pondered for a moment, and the thought came into his mind that perhaps this was a sequel to the strange disappearances and mysteries he had been trying to unravel—but after a moment, he cast the thought aside as being impossible, and decided that the accident must have been caused by a passer-by throwing away a match or a lighted cigarette, so he hurried across the fields to tell the farmer of his loss. That night, however, he had cause to think more deeply over the mishap to the sheep.
About six in the evening Ezra Meakin and a companion set out for Kiltown. They intended to stay the night there and come back by the carrier in the morning. At eight a shrieking, demented man came flying into Marshfielden, and fell in a heap across the steps that led up to the church.
Matt Harding was near and ran to his aid.
“Good God, it’s Ezra!” he cried.
It was indeed, but a very different Ezra from the one who had left Marshfielden only two hours before. His clothes were scorched and his hair singed, while great blisters, that could have been caused only by excessive heat, marred his face.
“What has come over ye, lad?” asked Matt in concern.
“The fire! The fire!” cried Ezra hysterically. “It’s taken Luke—he’s gone,” and with the words he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Matt lifted him up in his strong arms, and bore him to the nearest cottage. “Fetch the Inspector,” said he curtly as he busied himself in trying to restore life to the inanimate form on the bed. At length he succeeded—a tremor passed through the body; the hands unclasped; the eyelids fluttered slightly. Then the lids slowly moved, and Matt stared down in horror at the wide open eyes. Blindly he stumbled out of the room, and fell into the arms of the Inspector.
“What’s the matter?” asked Vardon.
Matt looked at him stupidly for a moment, and then gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Ezra—he’s—he’s—”