Mr. Oxley did not reply. The idea was chimerical, fantastic, absurd, and yet—it was certainly possible. There _had_ been a number of daring burglaries within the last few months, which were generally believed to be the work of one gang, and in no single instance had the police been able to effect an arrest. The belief in the old miser’s hoard _was_ universal, and from the point of view of the thief, Starvel would be one of the easiest cribs to crack. Moreover, on second thought Tarkington’s suggestion as to the origin of the fire was not so fanciful, after all. The safe containing the money was in Averill’s bedroom, and the old man would have to be quieted in some way before it could be opened. Roper’s attention might easily have been attracted, and the burglars, either by accident or in self-defence, might have killed him. If so, the fire would be their obvious way of safety. Yes, the thing was possible. All the same there wasn’t a shred of evidence that it had happened. “But my dear fellow,” Oxley said at last, “that’s all my eye! Very ingenious and all that, but you haven’t a scrap of evidence for it. Why invent a complicated, far-fetched explanation when you have a simple one ready to hand? Sounds as if you had been reading too many detective stories lately.” Tarkington did not smile with his friend. “You think it nonsense?” he asked earnestly. “You think I needn’t tell the police about the note?” “I don’t think you have any evidence: not evidence to justify even a suspicion. You’ve no real reason to suppose Averill did not hand that twenty-pound note to some one from whom it passed to the man who paid it in.” “To whom, for example?” “I don’t know. Neither of us knows what visitors the old man might have had. But that doesn’t prove he had none.” Mr. Tarkington seemed far from satisfied. He threw away his cigarette and took another from the box, handling it delicately in his long, thin fingers. He moved nervously in his chair and then said in a low voice:— “I suppose then, Oxley, I may take it that you were quite satisfied about that business—I mean at the time?” Mr. Oxley looked at his friend in surprise. “Good gracious, Tarkington, what bee have you in your bonnet? Do you mean satisfied that the fire was an accident and that those three poor people were burned? Of course I was. It never occurred to me to doubt it.” The other seemed slightly relieved. “I hope sincerely that you’re right,” he answered. “But I may tell you that I wasn’t satisfied—neither at the time nor yet since. That’s the reason that when I heard about the note I came at once to consult you. There’s a point which you and the coroner and the police and every one concerned seem to have overlooked.” He dropped his voice still further and became very impressive. “What about the papers that were burnt in the safe?” Mr. Oxley was surprised at his friend’s persistence. “Well, what in Heaven’s name about them? For the life of me I don’t see what you’re driving at.”