"Almost immediately."

"Two freaks," commented Bigby. "Do you think that anything could have attracted that lightning stroke?Anything special, I mean?"

"It would have been possible," decided Cranston. "I have heard of devices that will attract lightning."

"And do you know of anything that could produce an immediate conflagration of the size you witnessed?"

"Yes, thermite could have done it."

Cranston's statement brought a head-shake from Clem.

"Hain't had no trouble from termites for the last ten years," began Clem. "I've heered of rats starting fires, but never termites--"

"Mr. Cranston is speaking of a high-powered chemical," interposed Bigby, "not of destructive insects.

His conclusions fit precisely with my own. That is why we are all going to talk to the one man who can answer these very relevant questions."

In dominating fashion, Bigby waved his visitors out through the door. He escorted them straight to the driveway, where he gestured them into a large car. As he took the wheel, Bigby turned to the rear seat and added a piece of information that was scarcely necessary.

"By 'the one man'," announced Claude Bigby, "I mean Lamira's newest and most obnoxious citizen, Preston Brett!"

V.

WHEN he reached the bottom of his long, winding driveway, Bigby didn't turn to the right to follow the curving roundabout highway that led to Brett's gingerbread mansion. Instead, he turned to the left and followed the road into Lamira. There, he pulled up in front of new mill that Brett operated.

The workers who were coming from the mill stood stock-still as they saw Bigby alight from the arriving car. Of all visitors to these preserves, Bigby was the last they expected, because of his feud with Brett.

By the rule of things, the mill hands should have been antagonistic toward Bigby--but they weren't.

While some remained fixed in surprise, others waved a cheery greeting. This developed into handclaps as Bigby strode in through the doorway marked "Office." Margo was puzzled, but Cranston saw the answer. Among the mill workers were several who didn't recognize Bigby at all; they were new hirelings imported by Brett. The local men, even though glad that industry was coming back to Lamira, did not relish such outlanders. Bigby, the man whose motto was "Kawagha for Kawaghans," was undoubtedly rising in favor.

At the head of a stairway, Bigby shoved open a door marked "Private" and met Brett face to face. As the others entered, they saw Brett rising to meet the man he didn't expect. There were several persons in the room, but there was no mistaking Preston Brett. He not only occupied the chair behind the big desk; his manner at seeing Bigby identified him fully.

There was a chunky hardness about Preston Brett that reminded one of rock. He appeared to be constructed of building blocks in a.s.sorted sizes, from his broad shoulders to thick neck and chiseled profile. His face was as wide as it was high and his eyes had a stony stare that his lips imitated as well as they could. Firming tightly they actually held back words that Brett was inclined to utter, but decided to withhold until Bigby, the intruder, committed himself.

"I'm here to ask you a question, Brett," snapped Bigby. "Where were you at the time of the stormyesterday afternoon?"

Brett didn't answer, which simply stimulated Bigby to further outburst.

"You didn't happen to be near the Old Bridge Tavern, did you?" demanded Bigby. "They tell me that a car came racing down from that direction during the storm."

Eyes stonier than ever, Brett retained his calm.

"If you're thinking up an alibi," scoffed Bigby, "let's hear it, Brett."

Turning stiffly, Brett made a jerky gesture of his arm toward the men who were seated in the private office.

"These are the mill directors," introduced Brett. "They can tell you where I was."

Voices chimed in answer. To a man they declared that Brett had been at home, having left the mill early.

He had expected to hold this meeting yesterday, but had called it off. Thinking Brett wanted to see them at the house, most of these men had gone there.

"They came flying out of the storm like snow-birds," completed Brett, with a short laugh. "I couldn't have gone up to the old bridge and come home in time to receive them, at least not by car. Of course"--his eye gave a hard twinkle--"I could have flown by helicopter, dropped an artificial thunderbolt on the tavern and hopped home, if that's what you're driving at, Bigby.

"But my new aerocar hasn't been delivered yet and you're welcome to inspect my roof hangar if you don't believe me. No, Bigby"--Brett shrugged his shoulders with a peculiar lift--"you're barking your shins on the wrong tree. Better luck next time."

His eyes turning slightly, Brett fixed them on Cranston. After a moment of consideration, the blocky man came from behind his desk with outstretched hand. During the handshake, Brett clapped Cranston heavily upon the shoulder. He introduced him to the directors.

"I told you we would find new investors," declared Brett. "I am having Ralph Lenstrom up to the house for dinner and I'm sure this gentleman will join us. His name is Lamont Cranston; he may remember having met me in New York.

"Of course you are welcome too, Bigby"--Brett turned to his arch rival-- "and I think you would enjoy the visit. For instance, you might learn the thing you have been trying to find out; how thoroughly I plan to expand the local industries with the aid of new capital."

Bigby shook his head, controlling his anger at Brett's sarcasm.

"Sorry, Brett," said Bigby, "but my niece is holding a party at the house this evening. I'm sure Miss Lane will be glad to be there, even though Mr. Cranston may consider your business more essential."

It was neat, that way of Bigby's. He was literally shunting Cranston into Brett's hands, yet retaining a hold through Margo. Very obviously, Bigby could manage to see Cranston later and perhaps gain an inkling of what had happened at Brett's. But that didn't bother Brett in the least. He kept his lips straight, which was his method of smiling.

In his turn, Cranston took prompt advantage of the situation; he said that he would stop at the hotel and get his brief case. Brett could pick him up there later. That permitted Cranston to bow out with Bigby and Margo, which pleased Bigby immensely. Getting into the car, they drove over to the hotel. On theway, Bigby placed a few preliminary hints.

"Whatever Brett's business," declared Bigby, "I recognize your right to hold it in confidence, Cranston.

Of course I would advise you to think more than twice before putting money into any of his projects--and you can tell Brett that I said so, if you wish.

"Matters are too unsettled in this county for anyone to be certain of the future. Of course"--Bigby's eyes gave a wise side-glance--"there is plenty of established wealth in plain sight, in the form of orchards, farmland, quarries and natural resources. Brett will have to consider the people who own those resources, before spreading his schemes too far."

They stopped at the hotel where Margo went to her room to put on a dinner dress. Coming down to the lobby, she found Cranston waiting there. He nudged toward the door, indicating that Bigby was waiting in the car outside. He mentioned that he had arranged for Margo to drive over to Brett's in the coupe after the party ended.

"Of course," said Margo. "Then I can bring you back to town, Lamont. Is that the idea?"

"It is," replied Cranston. Then, in an undertone: "Now that Brett has shown something of an alibi, keep tabs on anything you hear at Bigby's."

"About Brett, you mean."

"To a degree, but chiefly about Zeke Stoyer. They may begin to blame him for the job at the Old Bridge Tavern."

"Why, of course!" Margo subdued her exclamation at Cranston's quick gesture. "That would cover the case, wouldn't it?"

"Not quite," replied Cranston, "because it doesn't explain what happened to Zeke afterward."

"Why, we saw what happened--"

"You mean we saw Zeke break his neck? No, Margo, we didn't."

"But he plunged down the embankment head-first!"

"Body first, Margo, with his head tilted back and wobbling before he struck. That neck of Zeke's was a preliminary souvenir."

Margo's eyes showed horror at this suggestion of murder. She began to picture Zeke as a witness of incendiary preparations at the tavern. Gradually she caught Cranston's viewpoint: Zeke was a logical tool, disposed of by someone who had bribed him to plant the suspected fireworks.

A name was springing to Margo's mind when she saw the reason for Cranston's hushed tone. It involved the man in question. Over at the other side of the lobby, Herbert Creswold was engaged in earnest conversation with Ralph Lenstrom. The latter, for some reason, seemed both uneasy and unconvinced.

"It could have been Creswold," whispered Margo. "He might have propped Zeke's body so it would fall, and then gone to get his car, down on some side road below the bridge--"

Margo paused, studying Cranston's face as she always did when she went too far with her deductions, As usual, Margo saw a slight smile.

"I get it," added Margo. "Brett might have done the same and driven all the way home, before thedirectors arrived there. Until you've settled the time element, the score stands even, doesn't it?"

"Unless other evidence crops up," replied Cranston, with a nod. "But don't bother yourself with those details, Margo. Just keep track of what goes on at Bigby's while I do the same at Brett's."

Something was going on right here in the lobby of the Kawagha Hotel. Lenstrom was shaking himself loose from Creswold and having a deal of trouble doing it.

"I'm sorry," Lenstrom was saying, "but I've got to stop at the bank before I meet Brett--"

"You mean that's where Brett is going to meet you," objected Creswold, testily. "Now listen, Lenstrom: I've told you--"

"I know what you've told me and I'll remember it. I'm no fool, Creswold. Why don't you come to Brett's yourself?"

"Because I haven't been invited and besides, my car is being repaired. Anyway, the man to see is Bigby.

He knows this county better than Brett does. If you make that deal with Brett, you'll regret it."

Creswold finished his advice with a sharp turn on his heel and a stride across the lobby. Hesitating a few moments, Lenstrom finally went out through the front door. He turned in the direction of the bank. A sharp toot from an automobile horn made Margo think it was meant for Lenstrom until Cranston smilingly gestured her out to the street.

"Don't keep Bigby waiting," said Cranston. "I'll stay here until Brett picks up Lenstrom and comes back for me. Stay alert this evening, Margo, and let me know all that happens."

Much was to happen that evening, under Cranston's surveillance as well as Margo's; much more than either of them supposed!

VI.

MOONLIGHT lay upon the slope. Beneath its glow, Stony Run became a spattering ribbon with a sheen of silver. Rocks formed black splotches in the tumbling stream that divided Bigby's domain from Brett's.

Among them was a conspicuous landmark.

This was Pow-wow Boulder, which divided Stony Run half-way down the slope. It was so called because the little islet which it dominated had been a gathering place for Indian chieftains prior to the arrival of the pioneers. In fact, Pow-wow Boulder had been the jumping off place for Indian attacks upon the original Bigby homestead. Hence, in a way, it belonged to the family tradition.

If Indians had still been around, they could also have used the Boulder as a starting point for a raid on Brett's. The big stone lay midway between the two mansions. Since there were no longer any Indians, the famous Boulder had simply become an object of dispute between Bigby and Brett, regarding whose property it occupied.

Tonight the Boulder was a forgotten subject. In The Gables, the light from many windows was creeping out beneath the overhanging eaves. On the other side of the Run, Future Haven showed an iridescent glow through its solid but translucent walls. The two parties were in progress.

The difference lay in the parties. There was merriment at Bigby's. A crowd of young folks completed the intricacies of the Boston Fancy and a variety of Square Dances. Farmers and their wives looked on in what seemed grim approval at this revival of the good old days. In the darkness around the antiquated mansion, the driveway was packed with old cars that looked like things from the fossil age. Only Margo Lane sensed something somber in these proceedings. She noted that at intervals, Bigby and a few farmers drifted from the huge living room, in the fashion of men who planned to test the contents of a cider jug. The curious thing was that only Bigby returned. So when the master of the mansion coaxed away another pair of farmers, Margo decided to learn what it was all about.

Through a narrow, odd-shaped hallway, Margo reached a door where she could peer into an ample kitchen. She was right about the cider jug; several farmers were seated around a deal table, squeezing the last drinks from a diminished supply. Bigby wasn't with them. As Margo watched, three of the farmers finished their drinks and went out by the back door, advising the others to wait and learn the rest from Bigby.

So Margo waited too, outside her door. She learned some facts immediately. The farmers were discussing an important subject that had been mentioned that very afternoon.

"Twenty-five thousand more is going out," declared a farmer, adding figures on the oil-cloth. "It's going to tax us heavy, paying old Clem's claim."

"We've been taxed heavy already," returned another. "Where the money is coming from for this a.s.sessment is something I don't know."

"Brett has been offering to pay us some, in hard cash, too. Says he's willing to go easy on the interest payments."

"So I've heard, and I've got half a mind to go over to Brett's tonight. Only 'twouldn't be fair without telling Bigby first."

The sound of m.u.f.fled footsteps sent Margo into a scurry around the turn of the hall. The footsteps were coming up some stairs from the cellar. Margo was scarcely out of sight before a door opened opposite the kitchen. Bigby appeared, carrying a cider jug. As she drew further back, Margo noticed that there was an outside door just behind her. It was bolted. Otherwise she could have used it to duck out into the dark, had Bigby turned in her direction. Fortunately however, Bigby didn't come toward the side door; he went across into the kitchen with the cider. Margo stole after him to watch the proceedings.

While he poured the cider, Bigby listened to a repet.i.tion of the comments that Margo had heard. He gave his conclusions in a firm, terse style.

"It's not just a question of raising money," a.s.serted Bigby. "It's a matter of preventing fires."

To a man, the farmers agreed that Bigby was right.

"So why worry about seeing Brett?" demanded Bigby. "The proposition is to watch him."

That plan brought immediate e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns from the farmers. Certifying their approval with gulps of cider, they leaned their elbows on the deal table to hear more.

"I've sent the others out to watch him," explained Bigby, "and I'm expecting you to help them. Just see to it that Brett don't leave his house tonight and there won't be another bonfire with a farm-house in the middle of it."

While Bigby was steering the farmers out through the back door, Margo returned to the living room. She had joined one of the dances when Bigby arrived and began clapping hands in time to the music of the hayseed orchestra.

Over at Brett's fanciful mansion, the only music came from a low-tuned radio. Brett's a.s.sociates wereseated around a modernistic table of black and chrome, spreading blueprints that covered prospective saw-mills, factories, quarry projects and even mines.

Their beverage happened to be champagne. Brett had gone down to his wine-cellar to select a few choice bottles. At least such was his stated reason, but Cranston could easily picture a better one. During Brett's absence, his stooges were talking frankly about his schemes. They were carefully turning all the trend in Brett's favor. This was for the special benefit of Lenstrom as an immediate investor, with a possible thought of Cranston as a future one.

When Brett returned with the champagne he gave an affable smile and inquired: "Well, Lenstrom, what do you think of it?"

"I'd say you intend to tear the Kawagha region apart," observed Lenstrom, "if you ever get your hands on it."

"Or somebody else's hands," smiled Brett. "You brought the cash, didn't you, Lenstrom?"

"Fifty thousand dollars." Lenstrom produced a wad of bills and began counting it on the table. "I liked your proposal, that I should buy options on local land, rather than invest in your projects. It puts me in an excellent position."

"Right in the saddle," a.s.sured Brett. "I can buy the land from you when I expand. Meanwhile you have the land itself as security."

"There is only one trouble," said Lenstrom, looking around. "I don't see any customers."

"You mean the farmers?" Brett's tone was troubled. "Several of them promised they'd stop in, Lenstrom.

I suppose that shindig at Bigby's detained them."

Shaking his head, Lenstrom gathered up the cash.

"Bigby didn't just detain them," he remarked. "He dissuaded them, as Creswold said he would."

"So you've been listening to Creswold." Brett's tone hardened. "He's the one man who doesn't count at all. I tell you, Lenstrom, these farmers need money because of the hard luck they've been having lately.

They won't sell their land to me, because they've promised Bigby they won't. But I felt sure they would compromise far enough to give you options on their property. It's too good an opportunity to lose."