“What name was it?” asked several, eagerly.
“Darius Darke.”
“That’s a queer name. Is it his real name, squire?”
“I don’t think it is. I know very little of him or his career. He may have had reasons for using a false name.”
“Very likely.”
“If he was burnt in the fire, squire, you’ll be likely to find his bones among the ashes,” suggested Newell Ingalls.
“I hope not. I hope he had time to escape,” said the squire. “However, it will be well to look in the morning.”
By this time the barn was completely consumed, and the embers alone remained.
“Friends and neighbors,” said Squire Simpson, “it is all over, and there seems to be no danger of the fire spreading. I won’t keep you any longer out of your beds. I thank you heartily for your kindly coming to my help, and I will on a future occasion express my acknowledgments in a suitable manner.”
The crowd dispersed, the engine was returned to the engine-house, and John Simpson sought his chamber.