merely," he ground out, "you are murderers!"
Chapter X
The Sixth Sense
"I suppose you have read in the papers of the mysterious burning of our country house at Oceanhurst, on the south shore of Long Island?"
It had been about the middle of the afternoon that a huge automobile of the latest design drew up at Kennedy's laboratory and a stylishly dressed woman, accompanied by a very attentive young man, alighted.
They had entered and the man, with a deep bow, presented two cards bearing the names of the Count and Countess Alessandro Rovigno.
Julia Rovigno, I knew, was the daughter of Roger Gaskell, the retired banker. She had recently married Count Rovigno, a young foreigner whose family had large shipping interests in America and at Trieste in the Adriatic.
"Yes, indeed, I have read about it," nodded Craig.
"You see," she hurried on a little nervously, "it was a wedding present to us from my father."
"Giulia," put in the young man quickly, giving her name an accent that was not, however, quite Italian, "thinks the fire was started by an incendiary."
Rovigno was a tall, rather boyish-looking man of thirty-two or thirty-three, with light brown hair, light brown beard and mustache. His eyes and forehead spoke of intelligence, but I had never heard that he cared much about practical business affairs. In fact, to American society Rovigno was known chiefly as one of the most daring of motor-boat enthusiasts.
"It may have been the work of an incendiary," he continued thoughtfully, "or it may not. I don't know. But there has been an epidemic of fires among the large houses out on Long Island lately."
I nodded to Kennedy, for I had myself compiled a list for the Star, which showed that considerably over a million dollars' worth of show places had been destroyed.
"At any rate," added the Countess, "we are burned out, and are staying in town now—at my father's house. I wish you would come around there. Perhaps father can help you. He knows all about the country out that way, for his own place isn't a quarter of a mile away."
"I shall be glad to drop around, if I can be of any assistance," agreed Kennedy as the young couple left us.
The Rovignos had scarcely gone when a woman appeared at the laboratory door. She was well dressed, pretty, but looked pale and haggard.
"My name is Mrs. Bettina Petzka," she began, singling out Kennedy. "You do not know me, but my husband, Nikola, was one of the first students you taught, Professor."
"Yes, yes, I recall him very well," replied Craig. "He was a brilliant student, too—very promising. What can I do for you?"
"Why, Professor Kennedy," she cried, no longer able to control her feelings, "he has suddenly disappeared."
"What line of work had he taken up?" asked Craig, interested.
"He was a wireless operator—had been employed on a liner that runs to the Adriatic from New York. But he was out of work. Someone has told me that he thought he saw Nikola in Hoboken around the docks where a number of the liners that go to blockaded ports are laid up waiting the end of the war."
She paused.
"I see," remarked Kennedy, pursing up his lips thoughtfully. "Your husband was not a reservist of any of the countries at war, was he?"
"No—he was first of all a scientist. I don't think he had any interest in the war—at least he never talked much about it."
"I know," persisted Craig, "but had he taken out his naturalization papers here?"
"He had applied for them."
"When did he disappear?"
"I haven't seen him for two nights," she sobbed.
It flashed over me that it was now two nights since the fire that had burned Rovigno's house, although there was no reason for connecting the events, at least yet.
The young woman was plainly wild with anxiety. "Oh, can't you help me find Nikola?" she pleaded.
"I'll try my best," reassured Kennedy, taking down on a card her address and bowing her out.
It was late in the afternoon before we had an opportunity to call at the Gaskell town house where the Rovignos were staying. The Count was not at home, but the Countess welcomed us and led us directly into a large library.
"I'd like to have you meet my father," she introduced. "Father, this is Professor Kennedy, whom Alex and I have engaged to look into the burning of our house."
Old Roger Gaskell received us, I thought, with a curious mixture of restraint and eagerness.
"I hope you'll excuse me?" asked the Countess a moment later. "I really must dress for dinner. But I think I've told you all I can. I wanted you to talk to my father."
"I've heard of the epidemic of fires from my friend Mr. Jameson here, on the Star," remarked Kennedy when we were alone. "Some, I understand, have attributed the fires to incendiaries, others have said they were the work of disgruntled servants, others of an architect or contractor who hasn't shared in the work and thinks he may later. I've even heard it said that an insurance man may be responsible—hoping to get new business, you know."
Gaskell looked at us keenly. Then he rose and approached us, raising his finger as though cautioning silence.
"Do you know," he whispered so faintly that it was almost lost, "sometimes I think there is a plot against me?"
"Against you?" whispered back Kennedy. "Why, what do you mean?"
"I can't tell you—here," he replied. "But, I believe there are detectaphones hidden about this house!"
"Have you searched?" asked Kennedy keenly.
"Yes, but I've found nothing. I've gone over all the furniture and such things. Still, they might be inside the walls, mightn't they?"
Kennedy nodded.
"Could you discover them if they were?" asked Gaskell.
"I think I could," replied Craig confidently.
"Then there's another peculiar thing," resumed Gaskell, a little more freely, yet still whispering. "I suppose you know that I have a country estate not far from my daughter?"
He paused. "Of course I know," he went on, watching Kennedy's face, "that sparks are sometimes struck by horses' shoes when they hit stones. But the shoes of my horses, for instance, out there lately have been giving forth sparks even in the stable. My groom called my attention to it, and I saw it myself."
He continued looking searchingly at Kennedy. "You are a scientist," he said at length. "Can you tell me why?"
Kennedy was thinking deeply. "I can't, offhand,"
