“Good afternoon, Doctor,” I said formally.  “I shall not keep you from your patient.  I wish merely to ask you a question.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

“It will not be necessary.  Doctor, has any one come to you, either early this morning or to-day, to have you treat a bullet wound?”

“Nothing so startling has happened to me,” he said.  “A bullet wound!  Things must be lively at Sunnyside.”

“I didn’t say it was at Sunnyside.  But as it happens, it was.  If any such case comes to you, will it be too much trouble for you to let me know?”

“I shall be only too happy,” he said.  “I understand you have had a fire up there, too.  A fire and shooting in one night is rather lively for a quiet place like that.”

“It is as quiet as a boiler-shop,” I replied, as I turned to go.

“And you are still going to stay?”

“Until I am burned out,” I responded.  And then on my way down the steps, I turned around suddenly.

“Doctor,” I asked at a venture, “have you ever heard of a child named Lucien Wallace?”

Clever as he was, his face changed and stiffened.  He was on his guard again in a moment.

“Lucien Wallace?” he repeated.  “No, I think not.  There are plenty of Wallaces around, but I don’t know any Lucien.”

I was as certain as possible that he did.  People do not lie readily to me, and this man lied beyond a doubt.  But there was nothing to be gained now; his defenses were up, and I left, half irritated and wholly baffled.

Our reception was entirely different at Doctor Stewart’s.  Taken into the bosom of the family at once, Flinders tied outside and nibbling the grass at the roadside, Gertrude and I drank some home-made elderberry wine and told briefly of the fire.  Of the more serious part of the night’s experience, of course, we said nothing.  But when at last we had left the family on the porch and the good doctor was untying our steed, I asked him the same question I had put to Doctor Walker.

“Shot!” he said.  “Bless my soul, no.  Why, what have you been doing up at the big house, Miss Innes?”

“Some one tried to enter the house during the fire, and was shot and slightly injured,” I said hastily.  “Please don’t mention it; we wish to make as little of it as possible.”

There was one other possibility, and we tried that.  At Casanova station I saw the station master, and asked him if any trains left Casanova between one o’clock and daylight.  There was none until six A.M.  The next question required more diplomacy.

“Did you notice on the six-o’clock train any person—­any man—­who limped a little?” I asked.  “Please try to remember:  we are trying to trace a man who was seen loitering around Sunnyside last night before the fire.”

He was all attention in a moment.

“I was up there myself at the fire,” he said volubly.  “I’m a member of the volunteer company.  First big fire we’ve had since the summer house burned over to the club golf links.  My wife was sayin’ the other day, `Dave, you might as well ‘a’ saved the money in that there helmet and shirt.’  And here last night they came in handy.  Rang that bell so hard I hadn’t time scarcely to get ’em on.”