“Hum! Fire, eh? And I hadn’t been inside this Lodge since b’fore Thanksgiving. Kinder funny, heh?”
“Yes.”
“Anything stole?”
“Not a thing touched as far as we know. No other traces but the embers in that grate—”
“Hold on, Mister!” exclaimed M’Graw, but in a low voice. “What grate are you referrin’ to? Which room was this fire in?”
Mr. Howbridge told him. The old man’s face was curious to look upon. His brows drew down into a frown. His sharp eyes lost their humorous cast. Of a sudden he was very serious indeed.
“That thar room,” he said slowly, and at length, “was Miz’ Birdsall’s.”
“So I believed from the way it was furnished and from what Frank had told me of the house.”
“Yes, Mister. That was her room. She thought a heap of sittin’ in that room; ’specially in stormy weather. And the little shavers used to play there with her, too.”
“Yes?”