the 'literature of assassination' would not last—that a good night's rest would turn your thoughts into another groove."
"Perhaps it would have been so,"said Ashton-Kirk. "But things have happened in the meantime."
"And you don't appear at all put out that they have done so. That is possibly the most distressing feature of the business. If anything, you seem rather pleased. Of course, an odd murder or so is to be expected in the ordinary course of events; but one hardly counts upon one's intimates being concerned in them. It is disconcerting."
He crossed his legs and pursed up his lips.
"If you don't mind,"added he, "now that I have expressed myself, I'll listen to the details of whatever you have in view."
"There is not a great deal to tell,"said Ashton-Kirk. "A man has been murdered in Christie Place. It happens that I have an interest in the matter; otherwise I would not think of dipping into it."
Pendleton looked at him reproachfully.
"After all, then,"exclaimed he, "you are but a dilettante! Assassination in the abstract is well enough, but you have a disposition to shirk practical examples. I have been deceived!"
Christie Place was some distance west and ran off from a much frequented street. It was notable for the wilderness of sign boards that flared from each side. The buildings were apparently let out in floors and each lessee endeavored to outdo his neighbor in proclaiming his business to the passing public. The lower floors were, for the most part, occupied by small grocers, dealers in notions, barbers, confectioners and such like.
"What a crowded, narrow little place,"commented Pendleton, as the car turned into the street. The air in the street seemed to him heavy.
About midway in the block a small group stood about a doorway; from a window above swung a sign bearing the name of Hume. The car stopped here; Ashton-Kirk and his friend got out; the group at the doorway parted and a big man stepped forward.
"Why, hello,"said he, cordially. "You're the last person I was looking for. How did you hear about this?"
"Good morning, Osborne,"said Ashton-Kirk, shaking the big man's hand. "I'm glad to find you in charge. I got it in an unusual sort of way, and came down to have a look."
Osborne, though in plain clothes, was emphatically a policeman. His square face, his big frame, his dogged expression, somehow conveyed the impression as plainly as words.
"It must have been unusual,"said he, "because even the reporters haven't got it yet; headquarters is keeping it quiet until the chief gets in."
Ashton-Kirk looked vastly pleased.
"Excellent,"said he to Pendleton. "We'll have a look at the place before it has lost the atmosphere of the crime."Then to Osborne: "May we go up?"
"Sure,"answered the other readily. "Only don't pull things around any. That young fellow that they've elected coroner is awful touchy about such things. He wants to be first always."
"Nothing of importance shall be disturbed,"promised Ashton-Kirk. Then motioning Pendleton to follow, he ascended the flight that led to the second floor.
It was narrow and dusty, as Miss Vale had said. The walls were smutted, the hand rail felt greasy, the air was stale. A passage, dim and windowless, ran the depth of the building; from the front there came a patch of daylight through a ground glass door. Upon this latter could be easily read the words:
DAVID P. HUME
NUMISMATIST
PHILATELIST
ART CURIOSITIES
A policeman stood at the head of the stairs smoking a cigar in an informal way.
"All right,"said he, "if Osborne let you come up I've got nothing to say. He's the boss."
"Have you looked over the place?"
"Just a glance. The floor has been fitted up as an apartment. Hume occupied all the rooms. The body,"pointing to the front room, "is in there."
"Thanks."
Ashton-Kirk turned the knob of the door nearest, the one with the lettering upon it. The room was without windows; the investigator closed the door and lighted the gas.
"Just a moment,"said he.
The door leading to the front room stood wide. He disappeared through this for a moment; when he returned, his face wore a tightened expression; his eyes were swift and eager.
"This is a sort of store room, I should say,"spoke Pendleton.
Pictures hung about upon the walls and stood packed in corners; statues of bronze, marble and plaster were on every side; brass bas-reliefs, rugs of Eastern design and great price, antique armor, coin cabinets, ponderous stamp albums, Japanese paintings and carvings and a host of queer and valuable objects fairly crammed every inch of space.
"I had heard that Hume was wealthy,"commented Ashton-Kirk. "And this seems to prove it. This room contains value enough to satisfy a fairly reasonable person."
The two young men passed through into what appeared to be a kitchen. There was an ill kept range upon one side cluttered with cooking things. A bare oaken table of the Jacobean period held the remains of a meal. A massive Dutch side-board, covered with beautiful carving, stood facing them; every inch of available space upon it was crowded with bottles, decanters and glasses.
"The gentleman was not averse to an occasional nip, at any rate,"said Pendleton. "And his taste was rather educated, too,"examining the sideboard's contents carefully. "The best was none too good for him."
Beyond this again was a bedroom. The bed was a huge Flemish affair, and also elaborately carved; over it was a spreading Genoese canopy, which through lack of care had grown dusty and tattered. Rich old rugs were spread upon the neglected floor; a beautiful Louis Quinze table had its top covered with discolored rings made by the bottoms of glasses, and the lighted ends of cigars had burned spots on it.
"The bed of a prince and the floor coverings of a duke,"said Pendleton with indignation. "And used much as a coal heaver would use them. Now, this table is really a scandal. If its owner has been murdered, I don't wonder at it. Some outraged lover of such things has probably taken the law into his own hands."
But Ashton-Kirk was paying little attention to the things that appalled Pendleton.
"Look,"said he.
He indicated the walls. Here and there the plaster was broken as though some fastened object had been violently torn away. At one place an empty picture frame, its glass smashed, hung askew from a hook. As Pendleton caught sight of other empty frames littered about the room, the glass of each broken, their pictures torn out, he exclaimed in astonishment:
"Hello! Someone has torn them down and smashed them. What an extraordinary thing to do!"
The pictures, mostly engravings, but with here and there a painting, were strewn about. Ashton-Kirk carefully gathered them up and spread them upon the table. They were by various hands, but unquestionably represented the same person—a handsome, resolute looking man in the uniform of an officer in the army of Washington.
"General Anthony Wayne,"said Ashton-Kirk, softly.
There was something in the tone that made Pendleton look at him swiftly. The splendid head was bent over the portraits; eagerness blazed in the dark eyes; the keen face was rigid with interest.
"Some drunken freak, do you think?"asked Pendleton, more to hear his friend's view than anything else.
But Ashton-Kirk shook his head.
"On the contrary, the thing seems full of a vague meaning,"said he. "There were seventeen pictures upon the walls of this room; fourteen have been torn down and destroyed; the other three are undisturbed."
Pendleton gazed at the pictures that remained upon the walls. Two were of fine looking houses of the colonial type; the third was the portrait of a man—a man of repulsive, sneering face, heavy with evil lines and with unusually