in the morning."

"We'll find them there now," Varr corrected him curtly. "You have your
torch? Come along, then."

He extinguished the light in the office and led the way downstairs and
out into the yard. They passed the smoking ruins of the two destroyed
buildings and came in a few seconds to the spot described by Fay. Varr
took the torch from him and played its beam on the ground near the
juncture of fence and brook.

"You're right!" he exclaimed. "Here are footprints--and that piece of
wire is what you heard him trip over. Take a close look at those
prints, Fay, while I hold the light. Don't muck 'em up with your own
dainty feet! Anything noticeable about them?"

The conscientious watchman dropped on his hands and knees and seemed to
fairly sniff at the marks like a bloodhound.

"No, sir," he reported regretfully. "They're just footprints."

Varr corroborated the truth of this when he bent to make his own
examination. The prints were sharp and distinct, but their very
clearness only added to the general obscurity. They were large and
clumsy, rude of outline, and had obviously been made by a pair of heavy
shoes such as workmen wear--and they might have been worn by any one of
a million workmen! Varr grunted his disgust as he sought in vain for
some little mark by which they might be distinguished from two million
like them.

"A big man," was the extent of his deductions.

"Yes, sir, that was what he looked like to me. I wish I could have
seen his face--though I've a notion he might have been masked."

"_Masked_!" Varr fell back a step. "_Masked_?"

"Why--yes, sir. That wouldn't be so unlikely, considering the errand
he come on! But I'm not sure--I had just that moment's look at him
through a swirl of smoke."

"Could you tell how he was dressed?"

"He was in black, sir. I thought so at first, and the way he got out
of sight in the darkness makes it seem likely. What, sir?"

Varr had muttered an oath. A figure dressed in black, with a mask!
That was circumstantial enough, the Monk had been busy--launching a
thunderbolt of wrath, presumably! Simon's lip curled; Ocky's familiar
of the Spanish Inquisition was a pretty scurvy knave if he would stoop
to firebrands by night--!

"Fay," he commanded abruptly. "Keep a close tongue in your head about
this. I've my reasons for it. Don't tell any one of these footprints
until I give you permission. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," replied the