“Is Doctor Grimshaw here?”
“No, he bain’t, Garge. What be wantin’ doctor for, hey?”
“I dun’no. Miss Cicely told me to fetch ’un quick. Old Hall be done for. That’s sartain.”
A quarter of an hour at least had elapsed before George appeared. During that time, men and boys had been seen hurrying up to the Hall. Nicodemus, unable to budge, had remained under the tree. No rain had fallen as yet, but the storm was coming nearer, and the intermittent lightning became more vivid with each succeeding flash. From the top of the tree Nick’s eerie laughter floated earthwards.
“Anybody burned?” asked the Ancient.
George Ball couldn’t be sure of this. He furnished a few details, avidly swallowed. The fire had started in the garage, and thence spread to the house; all the servants were safe, and busy rescuing pictures and furniture. He concluded on a high, nerve-shattering note:
“ ’Tis arson, I reckons.”
“What be arson?” asked Martha Giles.
“Settin’ other folks’ houses afire,” replied the constable. Noting a derisive smile on Timothy’s face, he asked officially:
“Why ain’t you up at Hall—helpin’?”