some one had made a sweep at him with something big and heavy and keen, and he had pulled back in time to escape most of it. But he was about next day; he thanked me for going out after him, but sat tighter than ever on the explanation thing. It was after this that I tried to reason it out for the last time. But it’s no use—the thing’s beyond yours truly. So here I am.”
The singular eyes of Ashton-Kirk were full of interest; he arose from his rug and took a couple of turns up and down the room; then he threw open a bulky railroad guide and his searching finger began to run in and out among the figures.
“There’s a train for Marlowe Furnace at 8:04,” said he.
Then he pressed one of a series of call bells in the wall, and, through a tube, said to some one below:
“Have dinner a hall hour earlier. And set places for two.”
“I didn’t think you’d jump into the thing with any such speed as this,” spoke Mr. Scanlon, highly gratified.
“It looks like a case which will admit of no delay,” replied Ashton-Kirk. “Something of a deadly nature is lowering over Schwartzberg; that’s plain enough. And that young Campe is so secretive about it is an indication that it’s one of those things which cannot well be spoken of to the police.”
CHAPTER III
IN WHICH THE SPECIAL DETECTIVE TAKES UP THE HUNT
After dinner, Ashton-Kirk smoked a cigar with his friend; then he retired to dress for the journey to Marlowe Furnace. When he reappeared he wore a rough, well-fitting gray suit, a gray flannel shirt, a cloth cap and a pair of springy tan shoes. In his hand he held a heavy hickory stick, which he balanced like a swordsman.
"You look primed for work,” approved Bat Scanlon, as he stood up and buttoned his coat across his big chest.
“Your story of the doings in and about Schwartz-berg holds out a promise of entertainment,” smiled Ashton-Kirk. “And I’ve noticed that things of that sort are always more appreciated if they are prepared for and met half-way.”
“Good!” praised Mr. Scanlon, who was in high good humor at his success in gaining the interest of the specialist in the unusual. “Fine! That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. It puts a man somewhere. Locking himself up and shivering never got anybody anything yet. And then going mad and rushing out to have unseen parties chop at him is even worse. When I taught boxing to the boys out at Shaweegan College I used to hand them this advice: ‘ Always keep after your man—don’t let him get set. And the best block for a blow is another blow—started sooner.’”
“Excellent,” agreed Ashton-Kirk. “And it’s a thousand pities you didn’t impress it upon young Campe. If you had, he’d never have been in his present state of mind and body.”
The huge shoulders of Scanlon shrugged in disbelief.
“Campe was past all reason when I got to him,” maintained he. “To talk candidly would only have queered any chance I had of doing him a good turn.”
The 8:04 was a dusty, ill-conditioned train which started and stopped with a series of jerks. After an hour on board of it, among a lot of uncomfortable, sour-looking passengers, the two got off at Marlowe Furnace. The station was a shedlike structure with a platform of hard-packed earth, and a brace of flaring oil lamps. An ancient, with a wisp of beard and thumbs tucked under a pair of suspenders, watched them get off.
“The station agent,” said Scanlon.
The train went panting and glaring away into the darkness; it had disappeared around a bend when the station official nodded to Scanlon.
“Evening,” greeted he.
“Hello,” said Scanlon.
“Back again, I see.”
“Yes—once more.”
“Nobody asked for you to-night.”
“That so?” said Scanlon, his glance going to Ashton-Kirk.
The detective dug carelessly at the hard-packed earth of the platform with the tip of the hickory stick.
“The person who asked for my friend the last time he stopped off here was a stranger to you, I understand.”
The ancient official took one of the thumbs from under a suspender and raked it thoughtfully through the wisp of beard.
“Don’t remember ever seeing him before,” stated he.
“I suppose you couldn’t recall what he looked like?”
The ancient looked injured.
“I’m sixty-seven year old,” said he, “but I got good eyesight, and a better memory than most That man I talked to that night was a stranger at the Furnace. If I’d ever set an eye on him before I’d remembered him. He was fat and white and soft looking. And he talked soft and walked soft. When he went away, I’d kind of a feeling that I’d been talking to a batter pudding.”
“Have you seen him since?” asked the crime student.
The old man shook his head.
“No. And I don’t know how he got here, or went away—unless he drove or come in an automobile. He didn’t use the trains.”
The road down toward the river was steep, and lined with trees upon each side; their interwoven branches overhead, as Scanlon had explained, were dense enough to keep out most of the light.
“It’s pretty much the same kind of a night as the one I used when I first came here,” said Bat “Stars, but no moon.”
The wooden bridge, with a peaked roof over it, crossed the river at the foot of the road; the square openings upon either side showed the dark water flowing sullenly along.
“Look,” and Bat Scanlon pointed out at one of the windows of the bridge. “There are the lights of Schwartzberg.”
Some distance away—perhaps a mile—and high above the west bank of the river, hung a cluster of lights. So lonely were these, and so pale and cold that they might well have marked the retreat of some necromancer, in which he pored over his dark books of magic.
“It’s a peculiar thing,” said Ashton-Kirk, his eyes upon the far-off lights, “what various forms fear takes. Here is a man who, apparently, is in constant terror of some one, or something, and yet we find him lodged stubbornly in a place where a secret blow might be leveled at him with the greatest ease.”
“That struck me more than once,” spoke Mr. Scanlon. “And I felt like putting it to him as a question shaped something like: ‘Why stay here when there’s places where there’s more folks? Why stick around a spot where there’s always some one cutting in with an unwelcome surprise, when you can get good house-room in places where there’s a-plenty of burglar alarms, and lots of night sticks? ’”
Their feet sounded drearily upon the loose planks of the bridge; and when they emerged at the far end they found themselves upon a narrow road which ran off into the darkness.
“On, over the hills, in and out, and up and down, until it lands you at Schwartzberg gate,” said Scanlon.
They climbed to the top of a hill; the sky was thick with stars, and the light from them touched the high places with pale hands. But the hollows were black and deep looking; mystery followed the course of the slowly-running river.
“What is there about Campe’s place?” asked the crime specialist. “Is this the only road that leads there? What are his neighbors like?”
“To the first of those questions,"said Mr Scanlon, “I reply, fields—also hills—also woods. There are roads passing Schwartzberg upon either side. As to neighbors, there's a few farmers,