Burton wasn't so sure of that. And he was even less assured after his half-hour conversation with the doctor, whom he found dressed, but certainly not wholly in his right mind.
"I have come to report the progress of the plot," said Burton. "I am glad to inform you that you are not suspected of having fired the Sprigg house with your own hand. Your sprained ankle served you well in that emergency. But your son Henry had no sprained ankle to protect him, so they have quite concluded that it was his doing."
Dr. Underwood looked at him thoughtfully, with no change of expression to indicate that the news was news to him.
"Was the fire incendiary?" he asked after a moment.
"So they assert."
The doctor closed his eyes with his finger-tips and sat silent for a moment.
"Was there any talk of--arrest?"
"There was wild talk, but of course there was nothing to justify an arrest,--no evidence."
"There never is," said the doctor. "This disturber of our peace is very skilful. He swoops down out of the dark, with an accompaniment of mystery and malice, and leaves us blinking, and that's all the satisfaction we get out of it. And the anonymous letters he scatters about are always typewritten."
"Not always," said Burton, resolving swiftly to throw the game into the doctor's hands. He laid before him the slip of paper that had been served upon himself in the night. "You don't, by any chance, recognize that handwriting?"