But at that moment the door below opened abruptly, and Watson came up the stairs in a hurry.
"You may as well drop this tomfoolery," he said, at the door, speaking without precaution or care. "Selby is dead,--stabbed through the heart. My men have found Henry Underwood's cuff-button beside the bed, and they'll soon have him. That's what comes of your theatrical plans, Mr. Burton, and of my cursed foolishness in letting Henry out of jail. This is a pretty night's work."
"Oh, why didn't you take me up?" exclaimed Ralston, in a rapture of excitement.
"Hush!" said Burton suddenly. He thought again that he heard that faint sound outside. Unconsciously he caught each of the other men by the arm, and drew them back against the wall.
Was it a shadow that darkened against the sky,--a shadow in the shape of a man that swung up over the window-ledge in light swift silence, and was poised for an instant against the patch of light that marked the place of the window? Something had dropped into the room as softly as a cat. There was a moment of absolute stillness. Burton held his breath and tried to hush the noisy beating of his heart. Then there came the soft scratch of a safety match, and a point of light marked a spot in the darkness. Then a candle wick caught the point and nursed it into a light, and a man's face was revealed.
Watson's muscles had been tense under Burton's detaining hand. Now he whistled shrilly and at the same instant leaped forward and closed with the intruder. There was a moment's struggle, and then the room was suddenly lit as two men who had been stationed outside rushed in with lights. The chief was down on the floor with the man he had assailed. For a moment they all fought in a furious mêlée, but the policemen met brute strength with brute strength, and the click of the handcuffs told the end. Then they lifted the man to his feet, and Watson held the lamp close to his sullen face. After a long look he turned to Burton.
"You were right," he said, and set the lamp upon the table. His hand was not quite steady.
"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Ralston, staring hard at the unknown face of the man. "Is it possible that it really is--Ben Bussey?"
"No one else," said Watson, stooping to pick up a bundle that had fallen on the floor. It was a loosely tied package of rags, soaked in kerosene.
"That's the way the Sprigg house was fired," he said.