"That man must have set it on fire!" Bess declared. "Otherwise, why would he be afraid to answer when you called?"

"He might have been a tramp who went into the house for shelter," George suggested thoughtfully, "and started the fire accidentally-perhaps from a lighted cigarette."

"I thought of that," Nancy admitted, "but it seems to me if the fire had begun that way it would have burned more slowly. Remember the sound of an explosion and how the house appeared to blaze up all at once?"

"That's true," George said, then added, "Guess we'll have to wait for the investigators' reports."

There was not much traffic that evening, and the girls reached River Heights in good time.

"There's Mother out on the porch!" Bess cried as they drew up before the Marvin residence. "She's been watching for us."

Next, Nancy dropped George at her home and then drove to the Drew house. As she pulled into the driveway, her father and Hannah Gruen, the housekeeper, came rushing out. Mr. Drew was tall and distinguished looking. The housekeeper, pleasantly plump, had a motherly expression.

"Are you all right?" they asked Nancy in unison.

"Yes, indeed, but I'm afraid my car will never look the same again."

"I don't care about the car," Mr. Drew said to his daughter, "as long as you're not hurt." Then he relaxed and asked, "The question now is how big a lawsuit will I have on my hands?"

"Suit? Oh, I see. You think I backed into another car. Don't worry. Another car ran into mine. I have the driver's name and license number. I'm to get in touch with him and let him know my repair cost."

As they entered the house, Mrs. Gruen went to the kitchen, while Nancy and her father turned into the living room.

"Tell me more about the fire," Mr. Drew urged. "Whose house is it?"

"The owner is Felix Raybolt."

"Felix Raybolt! Foxy Felix!" Mr. Drew exclaimed.

"Do you know him?" Nancy asked, surprised.

"Only by reputation-which isn't enviable. As a matter of fact, just today I accepted a case for a client, Arnold Simpson, who wants to sue Mr. Raybolt. He tells me there are many other people who would like to do so."

"What is Mr. Raybolt like, Dad?"

"Very shrewd, and very unfriendly. I understand he's wealthy."

"How did he make his money?"

"He deals in patents, and I've heard he made fortunes on some of them."

"You mean, Mr. Raybolt invents things?" Nancy questioned.

"No, he buys patents from inventors and cashes in on their ideas."

"Is that legitimate?"

"Yes, he has a right to buy a patent and make a profit from it. The unfair part is that Raybolt takes advantage of the inventor by verbally promising to pay him a royalty after he has marketed the device.

"In fact, that is the complaint of my client. He told me that Raybolt purchased a patent from him covering a certain part for an automatic elevator at a ridiculously low figure, then sold the patent to a manufacturing concern for a much higher sum. When Mr. Simpson reminded Raybolt of his promise, Foxy Felix turned him down -practically laughed in his face."

"No wonder people dislike Mr. Raybolt," Nancy remarked. "I suppose there are certain persons who might have set fire to his house out of pure revenge."

"Undoubtedly."

After a late, light supper, Nancy admitted being tired. She said good night to her father and Hannah and went upstairs.

As she slipped off her dress, the red leather booklet which she had found on the Raybolt estate dropped to the floor. Nancy s.n.a.t.c.hed it up with an exclamation of eagerness.

"This may furnish the clue I need!" she thought. "At any rate, I have an idea it will prove interesting. I'll read it this very night!"

Nancy forgot that she was tired and sleepy. Undressing hastily, she adjusted the reading lamp and took the book to bed with her.

"This is a diary," she decided, noting that each entry was preceded by a date. "Perhaps it contains the owner's name and address."

Settling herself comfortably against the pillow, Nancy opened the loose-leaf booklet. She stared in surprise at the first entry. The page was filled with baffling words, written in a foreign language.

She studied the text. Finally two familiar words struck her eye. "Adj-good-by.And G.o.d vn-good friend.Swedish!" Nancy murmured, recalling that a schoolmate of hers, a girl from Sweden, had often spoken these words in her native tongue.

"Oh, dear, I can't read the rest of it!" The young detective groaned.

She rapidly leafed through the pages. All the entries were in Swedish except the last few, which were written in cramped English.

Nancy held the diary closer to the reading lamp and tried to make out the words. But it was a discouraging task, since the letters had been run together in an indistinguishable fashion. She did manage to decipher a few scattered phrases, but try as she would, Nancy could not figure out a single entire sentence.

"How exasperating!" she thought impatiently. "This diary may contain a valuable clue, but I can't read it!"

The notations in Swedish were in larger handwriting than those in English. Nancy felt sure the diary belonged to a man, for though the writing was small and cramped, the characters were bold. She reflected, too, that if the little journal had been dropped by the stranger whom she had seen running away from the fire, it was all the more important for her to learn his name and what he had written in the diary.

"I'll have to find someone who can read Swedish," she said to herself. "If only Karen were here!" But Nancy's former schoolmate had returned to her native country with her family.

With that thought Nancy lowered her pillow, put out the light, and the next instant was asleep. It seemed only minutes later when she was awakened by the ringing of the telephone in the hall. The sun was shining through the windows and from the angle of the rays Nancy guessed that it must be after nine o'clock. Hannah, knowing that she was exhausted, had let her oversleep.

With a guilty start, Nancy jumped out of bed. Before she could open the door, Mrs. Gruen came in. "Good morning, Nancy. A young man wishes to speak to you on the phone."

"I'll be there in a jiffy. Don't let him escape!"

Thrusting her feet into dainty black-and-gold slippers and s.n.a.t.c.hing up her dressing robe, Nancy hurried to the hall telephone.

"Hope I didn't get you out of bed," a low, pleasant voice came over the wire. "This is Ned -Ned Nickerson,"

"Oh!" Nancy stammered, taken completely by surprise.

"You probably think I'm rushing things a bit," Ned went on, "but I picked up a ring at the Raybolts' this morning, and thought it might be yours."

"I didn't wear one yesterday," Nancy returned, finding her voice at last. "George or Bess might have lost one, though."

"The ring couldn't be theirs. It has a 'D' on it."