Ashton-Kirk, Special Detective. John T. McIntyre

are, perhaps, as early examples of Flemish weaving as one would be likely to find. They came into the possession of my family about the time of the French Revolution, a period when much that was rare and costly was kicking about, helter-skelter.”

      Ashton-Kirk examined the hangings with admiration.

      “From the design,” said he, “I’d venture that they came from the looms of either Bruges or Arras. The hand of Van Eyck—or a follower of Van Eyck, is unmistakable; and the greater part of their designs went to the weavers of those two cities.”

      Between two windows was a narrow strip of the tapestry and in examining this the attention of Ashton-Kirk was drawn to a huge, two-handed sword which hung against it.

      “A rather competent looking weapon,” said he; “and one which, no doubt, has seen excellent service.”

      Miss Knowles came nearer.

      “And who can be sure that its days of service are over?” said she, with a smile.

      A few moments before the crime specialist had caught something behind her laugh; now he fancied a still more subtle something was hidden behind the smile.

      “This blade was carried in the army of Bar-barossa, at the siege of Milan,"said young Campe.

      “And by one of Miss Hohenlo’s remote ancestors,” added Miss Knowles, and again came the enigmatic smile. “You should hear her tell the story. It’s really delightful. Sometimes I think she cares more for the sword than she does for the harp.”

      Miss Hohenlo advanced gingerly; there was something so mincing in her manner, so entirely like the old maid of tradition, that Mr. Scanlon winked very rapidly and watched her with something like fascination. She stroked the bare blade with one small hand.

      “It’s ugly,” she said. “It is rough and uncouth, much like a great mastiff reared outdoors and having no place in the house. But it has done much for the Hohenlos; it has gained them fortunes in the past; so why should I not cherish it?”

      “Why not, indeed?” said Miss Knowles.

      Scanlon noted that this apartment seemed of great interest to Ashton-Kirk; the tapestries were exclaimed over and talked about; the paintings were reviewed; the carvings were gone over minutely; the curious qualities and periods of various pieces of furniture were discussed.

      “But the harp,” mused the watchful Bat “The harp seems to be the extra added attraction. It’s got something that puzzles him, and he keeps going back to it again and again.”

      But it was not only the harp. The great naked sword hanging between the windows, backed by the bit of ancient tapestry, also seemed of continued interest. With a casual air, Ashton-Kirk more than once examined it; and his eyes, as Scanlon alone saw, were darting interest for all his seeming nonchalance. Once he took the weapon down and tested its weight in a sweeping stroke.

      “It would take a person of some strength to use this with any effect,” said he, and his eyes were upon Miss Knowles.

      “I hope,” said she, “that you are not one of those who believe that all the power has gone out of the race—that those of old times could do more than those of to-day.” She took the great weapon in her hands and raised it aloft with ease. “See, even a woman could use it” she said.

      And then with a smile she lowered the weapon and Campe replaced it upon the wall.

      “I don’t think,” said the young man, “there’s anything else of interest.”

      But Miss Knowles held up a protesting finger.

      “The vaults!” she said. “No one could say he had seen a castle without visiting those parts of it that are underground.”

      But Campe did not at all take to the suggestion.

      “They are damp and gloomy,” he said. “We seldom go into them.” He turned to Ashton-Kirk. "However, if you care to see them, I’ll be only too glad.”

      “If it is no trouble,” said the crime specialist, his singular eyes upon the beautiful face of Miss Knowles, “I’d be pleased to explore them.”

      With Kretz carrying a lamp, the three men descended into the regions beneath Schwartzberg. The damp from the near-by river had stained the walls and the stones of the pavement, the heavy arches hung with growths of fungus. The place was vast and gloomy; the radius of the lamp was small and beyond it the shadows thickened away into absolute blackness. The whole progress through the place seemed a bore to Scanlon.

      “Cellars,” commented he, “are fine places to keep coal in. Men who believe in encouraging industry have also been known to store wine in their cellars, so that the spiders could have something to spin their nets around. But for the purposes of exercise or for mild morning strolls they have their drawbacks. As for myself, I should prefer--

      Suddenly there was a smash of glass, the lamp fell into fragments and the place was plunged into darkness. Scanlon, who was next to Ashton-Kirk, felt him spring forward like a tiger; then came a sharp pistol shot, followed by another and still another.