"Why not?" asked Jennings, wondering why Lord Caranby had changed his mind—a thing he rarely did. "I only want to—"
"Yes! Yes!" Caranby waved his hand impatiently, "but the fact is, the house has been burnt down."
"Burnt down—at Rexton!" cried Jennings, jumping from his seat.
"Yes. It caught fire in some way last night, about eight o'clock. There was a high wind blowing, and the house has been burnt to the ground. Not only that, but, as the weather has been dry, the whole of the trees and shrubs and undergrowth in the park have gone likewise. I am informed that everything within the circle of that wall is a heap of ashes. Quite a burning of Rome," chuckled Caranby.
"Do you suspect the house was set on fire?"
"Of course I do. Even though the weather is hot, I don't think this can be a case of spontaneous combustion. Probably some tramp—"
"No," said Jennings decisively, "it is strange you should come to me with this news. One of my men has lately been here, and he tells me that a man was arrested near Rexton last night for passing false money. He had on him a bottle of petroleum and some rags."
"Ah!" said Caranby, quite serene, "so you think—"
"There can be no doubt about it, my lord. This man set fire to the house. People don't carry bottles of petroleum about for nothing."
"But why should he set fire deliberately to my house?"