As the figure rose from its crouching posture, after applying a match to the heap of shavings, it swiftly turned and fled, as if pursued, in the direction of the house. In so doing, it necessarily came nearer the watchful eye of the lodger in the stable.
“It is John Simpson!” exclaimed Darius Darke, a cold perspiration gathering on his face. “It is clear enough now what he meant to do. He intended to burn me up in the barn as I slept, and thus rid himself forever of the man who was acquainted with his secret. This is the reason why he passed by the stable and assigned me the old barn as a resting-place. His plans are defeated. If I were a better man, I should believe it to be by a special interposition of Providence. At any rate, I am grateful for my escape.”
Even as he spoke the fire was making headway. The old dry timbers formed admirable food for the flames. Besides, there was a considerable amount of hay on the loft, and this, too, was of a highly combustible character.
“The barn will be a heap of ashes in half an hour,” thought the tramp. “It will, of course, attract attention, and soon there will be a crowd here. I must close this door. No one must know that I am not actually in the barn, the victim of the flames.”
He closed the door, but through a crevice watched the flames, and soon heard the murmur of many voices, and the noise created by the arrival of the fire-engine. He could not hear the explanation which was given by John Simpson of the origin of the fire, but he guessed correctly what he would say.
“I should like to hear the hypocrite speak,” he thought. “How shocked these simple neighbors of his would be if they could know that the man who holds so prominent a place among them had this very night sought to commit a most atrocious murder!”
An hour later—less even—the barn was a smouldering mass of cinders, and the yard was deserted.
“I mustn’t stay here any longer,” thought Darius Darke. “I am sorry to lose my night’s sleep, but I must be up and away while the village lies buried in sleep. For the present John Simpson must suppose me dead, but the time will come when the man he thinks murdered will rise from the grave to disturb his peace.”
He descended to the floor, slipped out of the door by which he had entered, and ere the morning dawned was ten miles away from Wilton.