Hardly had Johnny led Mazie to the emergency wagon, where her hands were treated and bandaged, than his mind was once more at work on his problem—the origin of this fire and of all those other fires. It was not that he was unmindful of the welfare of his friend—Johnny was one of the best of friends—but the problem was assuming gigantic proportions. But for the fireproof building standing directly in its way, this very fire, Marshal Neil had assured him, would have swept across the city for a mile and would have left ten thousand homeless ones in its wake.
“The man who sets these fires,” Johnny said to himself savagely, “has no heart, and no sense. What could be his motive? What could the city have done to him bad enough to deserve such a revenge? What could the people of the city have done? Somehow, somewhere, we must find him!”
He thought of the pink-eyed man. In the excitement of the rescue he had lost him. Nor could he find him now, though he searched diligently for an hour.
“I’ll visit his place down there by the river,” he told himself. “I may discover something there.”
He had given up the search and, having returned to Mazie’s side, was standing watching the firemen as they battled with the blaze which at last was giving way before them. Then he noticed a man within the lines who did not wear a fireman’s uniform.
“Queer looking chap,” he whispered to Mazie, pointing as he spoke.
The man did look queer. He was an extraordinarily tall man and stooped almost to the point of deformity. His nose was large and hooked like a beak. He limped slightly as he walked. His clothing fitted loosely. His stiff hat was dented in three places.
“See here, you!” said a policeman, stepping up to him, “you can’t stay inside the line.”
“Dot’s all right, mister.” The man showed his white teeth in a grin, but it wasn’t a pleasant grin.
“You’ll have to go outside the line.”