"Yes, ma'am, he was there." "Then if any suspicious characters got into the rick-yard, he would no doubt have seen them," thought Miss Diana, to herself. "Do you know who did set it on fire?" she impatiently asked. Bridget's face, which had regained some of its colour, grew white again. Should she dare to tell what she had heard about Rupert? "I did not see it done," she gasped. "Come, Bridget, this will not do," cried Miss Diana, noting the signs. "There's more behind, I see. Where's Jim Sanders?" She looked around as she spoke but Jim was certainly not in sight. "Do you know where he is?" she sharply resumed. Instead of answering, Bridget was taken with a fresh fit of shivering. It amazed Miss Diana considerably. "Did Jim do it?" she sharply asked. "No, no," answered Bridget. "When I got to Jim he had somehow lost the puppy"--glancing down at her apron--"and we had to look about for it. It was just in the minute he found it that the flames broke forth. Jim was showing of it to me, ma'am, and started like anything when I shrieked out." "And what has become of Jim?" "I don't know," sobbed Bridget. "Jim seemed like one dazed when he turned and saw the blaze. He stood a minute looking at it, and I could see his face turn all of a fright; and then he flung the puppy into my arms and scrambled off over the palings, never speaking a word." Miss Diana paused. There was something suspicious in Jim's making off in the manner described; it struck her so at once. On the other hand she had known Jim from his infancy--known him to be harmless and inoffensive. "An honest lad would have remained to see what assistance he could render towards putting it out, not have run off in that cowardly way," spoke Miss Diana. "I don't like the look of this." Bridget made no reply. She was beginning to wish the ground would open and swallow her up for a convenient half-hour; wished Jim Sanders had been buried also before he had brought this trouble upon her. Miss Diana, Madam, and the young ladies were surrounding her; the maid-servants began to edge away suspiciously; even Edith had dismissed her hysterics to stare at Bridget. Cris Chattaway came leaping past them. Cris, who had been leisurely making his way to the Hold when the flames broke out, had just come up, and after a short conference with his father, was now running to the stables. "You are a fleet horseman, Cris," Mr. Chattaway had said to him: "get the engines here from Barmester." And Cris was hastening to mount a horse, and ride away on the errand. Mrs. Chattaway caught his arm as he passed. "Oh, Cris, this is dreadful! What can have caused it?" "What?" returned Cris, in savage tones--not, however, meant for his mother, but induced by the subject. "Don't you know what has caused it? He ought to swing for it, the felon!" Mrs. Chattaway in her surprise connected his words with what she had just been listening to. "Cris!--do you mean----It never could have been Jim Sanders!"