"It seems to be a lot of sheds and things," Hildegarde said. Then, speaking to a police officer, she asked what was burning. "Temporary buildings of the motor company," he said. "They were put up this spring as warehouses. They tell me they were filled with motor-trucks for the Allies, hundreds of 'em--and with parts and supplies." "Fireworks started it, I suppose," said Cantor, harshly. "I don't know.... Maybe so, but there's a heap of things happening lately that fireworks hain't got anythin' to do with. Them Germans...." "Nonsense!" said Cantor, vehemently. "It isn't nonsense," Hildegarde said, sharply. "They could lay it on the fireworks. That's why they did it to-day. I--" She stopped short and bit her lip. An ambulance came forcing its way through the crowd, to be stopped close beside Hildegarde and Cantor. "Oh," she said, "some one's hurt.... See who it is. Please do." She turned to the policeman. "Won't you ask who is hurt, please?" The officer was obliging. He made his way to the ambulance, assisted in making a path for it to proceed, and then returned to the car. "One of the watchmen," he said. "Ambulance doctor says he was knocked on the head.... Hurt bad. Says it looks like somebody hit him a nasty lick. Skull's cracked." Hildegarde shuddered. "Murder, too," she whispered. Then: "I've seen all I want.... Let's go home." They drove southward to Jefferson Avenue and eastward to the von Essen residence.... A car preceded them through the entrance and into the grounds. Hildegarde watched it, wondered who it could be. It stopped just before them and a man stepped out; he wavered, staggered, stumbled to the ground, and Hildegarde heard him cry out with pain. She leaped from Cantor's car and ran to the man's side. "Who is it?" she asked, breathlessly. "What is it? What's the matter?" The man struggled to his feet, holding one hand with the other, and answered through his teeth, as one speaks who suffers agony. "It's Philip, the chauffeur, Miss von Essen. Playing with fireworks and got burnt pretty bad." He breathed sharply. "Come into the house quickly," she said. "Mr. Cantor, take his arm. Help him in." As Cantor appeared the man started. "Steady," Cantor said. "Steady." Hildegarde followed them into the house. She was frightened, she was doubtful. There was an odor about the chauffeur's clothing which was not that of powder, nor was it exactly that of gasolene. She was sure it was kerosene.... What did that mean? As the man entered the hall he stumbled, cried out breathlessly, and slumped forward in a faint. Cantor and Hildegarde bent over him as Herman von Essen came hurriedly out of the library. "What's this? What's the matter?" he demanded, tensely. "Nothing to alarm you," said Cantor. "Your chauffeur got burnt a little with firecrackers, that's all."