"All right then. Better lumber down, though, fer ef he shed cotch a glimpse o' either on us, it's all played," cautioned Fyffe.
This advice was too good not to be followed, and in a moment more, all was still and silent about the premises. Poynter's mind was greatly excited, as well it might be, at the facts he had learned on that day; and as the gloomy prospect that had spread over his future began to lighten, a thousand air-castles were built, over all of which the pleasing form of Nora McGuire, his little rosy Irish lass, reigned as queen—need we state who was the king?
But he was suddenly aroused from his reverie, by the light tramp of a man's feet, and glancing up, he saw a dim, shadow-like figure, cautiously approaching the house, at a little to his left. From his position, close beside the slightly elevated porch that stood in the rear of the kitchen, the door of which led out upon it, Poynter was perfectly hidden, while yet he could quite plainly note the intruder's every movement.
This person lightly stepped upon the porch, and cautiously tried the door, but it was fastened. Then he went to one of the rear windows, and after a slight effort, raised it; then propping it up with a stick, drew himself through the aperture.
Listening intently, Poynter heard him groping around the room, and then after a few moments' silence, he saw a faint, flickering light spring up. Gliding to the window, he peered through, and saw Wesley Sprowl igniting a short piece of tallow-dip by the aid of a match.
Poynter knew now that he had his game secure, and crept around the building, where he was met by Jack Fyffe, who had been alarmed by the slight noise, and was just coming around to investigate it.
"Is it him?"
"Yes," whispered Poynter, "but we must let him start the fire first, before we interrupt him. Then as I jump through the window, do you burst in the back door and put out the blaze. I'll 'tend to him."
"Jest as you say, square; on'y I'd like to gi'n the varmint a squoze, like, jest for beans," grunted Fyffe, as he followed Poynter around the building.
They could still see the light, and hear an increased rattling in the room, and cautiously peering in at one corner of the window, the two men saw the incendiary splitting fine kindlings with the knife he had drawn from his belt. Poynter could scarcely restrain his passion, at noting how coolly and deliberately the dastardly scoundrel set about his work; but the pressure of Jack Fyffe's hand upon his arm, recalled his presence of mind.