“It had not occurred to me. But the friction and heat of the meteorite must have been extremely great.” “And extremely momentary except as to the lower floor, and the fire should have taken some time to spread from that. However, to turn to other matters—” He swung himself over the edge of the roof and went briskly down the lightning rod. Across the frozen ground he moved, with his eyes on the soil, and presently called up to his, host: “At any rate, he started across lots in the direction of the barn. Will you come down and let me in?” Back in the study, Average Jones sat meditating a few moments. Presently he asked: “Did you go to the spot where your son’s clothes were found?” “Yes. Some time after.” “Where was it?” “On the seashore, some half a mile to the east of the Tuxall place, and a little beyond.” “Is there a roadway from the Tuxall place to the spot?” “No; I believe not. But one could go across the fields and through the barn to the old deserted roadway.” “Ah. There’s an old roadway, is there?” “Yes. It skirts the shore to join Boston Pike about three miles up.” “And how far from this roadway were your son’s clothes found?” “Just a few feet.” “H’m. Any tracks in the roadway?” “Yes. I recall seeing some buggy tracks and being surprised, because no one ever drives that way.” “Then it is conceivable that your son’s clothes might have been tossed from a passing vehicle, to the spot where they were discovered.” “Conceivable, certainly. But I can see no grounds for such a conjecture.” “How far down the road, in this direction, did tracks run?” “Not beyond the fence-bar opening from the Tuxall field, if that is what you mean.” “It is, exactly. Do you know this Tuxall?” “Hardly at all. He is a recent comer among us.” “Well, I shall probably want to make his acquaintance, later.” “Have a care, then. He is very jealous of his precious meteor, and guards the ruins of the barn, where it lies, with a shot gun.” “Indeed? He promises to be an interesting study. Meantime, I’d like to look at your son’s clothes.” From a closet Mr. Prentice brought out a coat and waistcoat of the “pepper-and-salt” pattern which is sold by the hundreds of thousands the whole country over. These the visitor examined carefully. The coat was caked with mud, particularly thick on one shoulder. He called the minister’s attention to it. “That would be from lying wet on the shore,” said the Reverend Mr. Prentice. “Not at all. This is mud, not sand. And it’s ground or pressed in. Has any one tampered with these since they were found?” “I went through the pockets.” Average Jones frowned. “Find anything?” “Nothing of importance. A handkerchief, some odds and ends of string—oh, and a paper with some gibberish on it.” “What was the nature of this gibberish?”