“Nice game, isn’t it?” said the latter. “This sort of thing’s going on all over the place. I’ve just come down from Kensington Gardens, and, if anything, it’s worse there than it is here.” “Well, here comes a breath of air,” sighed Herrick, baring his head to the faint puff that rustled the leaves. “Yes, and from the south-west, too. It’ll do us good if it brings the rain at last.” They sauntered on--they were on the south side of the Serpentine--listening and looking. Presently they reached a widened space. “Hullo! do you see that?” exclaimed the detective, halting. “See it? Yes! What does it mean?” “Fire!” “A house?” “No, a tree. It must be in Kensington Gardens. That’s what comes of this match and candle business. If I’d had my way the troops should have hunted the whole pack of them out of this an hour ago.” “Look! look!” cried Herrick excitedly. Westward a tongue of flame had shot into the air, and then another, and another. “My God!” said Herrick, horrified. Then he set off at a run, the other keeping at his heels. On every side recumbent forms were scrambling to their feet. Oaths, obscene jests and blasphemous shouts broke upon their ears, and far and near sounded the shrill persistent whistles of the constables. A lurid light now illumined the western sky, and here and there ahead of them great cones of flame shot up, while huge columns of smoke bent and spread before the rising gusts of wind. The two men paused, exhausted for the moment, letting the rush of dim and stumbling figures eddy round them. “Kensington Palace must be on fire,” panted Herrick. “If so the League’s at the bottom of this business,” said the detective. “Hullo! you there----” Away to the left in a bed of flowering shrubs his quick eye had caught a stealthy movement. Almost as the words escaped him there was a little flame low down near the ground. It revealed a glimpse of a white, hot face, glistening with perspiration. The cheeks were inflated, the mouth was blowing at a little heap of straw, dried chips, and leaves. “You devil!” shouted Henshaw; “that’s your game?” He dashed into the bushes, but the incendiary was too quick for him. He wriggled clear on the other side and was lost to view in the wild on-rushing crowd. When they reached the road dividing the Park from Kensington Gardens, it was seen that the refreshment châlet just within the rails of the gardens was burning fiercely. In the midst of the crackling of the furnace could be heard crash after crash of crockery, as the piled cups and saucers, plates and jugs, came tumbling from their charred and splintering shelves.