IN WHICH ASHTON-KIRK PAYS HIS SECOND VISIT TO SCHWARTZBERG
Scanlon was not at all an impatient man, but the length of time
consumed by Ashton-Kirk next morning over his toilet and his breakfast
rather put him on edge.
“I like to see a man fussy about his appearance,” said he to himself.
“It’s a sign that he’s in health. Breakfast is also a good sign. The
fellow that can cheerfully face his morning meal is usually all right
inside. But both things can be carried to extremes. When there’s
pressing matters to be carried through what matter how you look; when
a puzzle of weeks’ standing is about to turn over on its edge and give
a last kick, a chop, an egg and a roll shouldn’t be the things to
interfere with its doing.”
But though the big man was in a highly excited state, Ashton-Kirk was
as calm as an August afternoon. He smoked a good-sized cigar after
breakfast and read the newspapers. To the amazement of Mr. Scanlon he
even showed interest in such things as the tariff, the building of a
new cup defender, and the international aspect of canal tolls.
However, at about ten o’clock a long telegram came; when he read this
his inactivity ceased; at once he rang for his car, and when it arrived
he and the big man got in. It was a brisk, sunny November day, and
they sped through the city streets and finally into the country roads
with that smoothness and ease possible to the modern automobile. They
flashed by the little station at Marlowe Furnace and across the covered
bridge; then, as they climbed the first hill on the west bank they
sighted the towers of Schwartzberg.
“And also two very industrious surveyors,” said Ashton-Kirk, his keen
eye picking out two small figures in the distance, who appeared deeply
absorbed in the measuring of some land.
Mr. Scanlon was pleased with the whole idea, and said so.
“It may be,” said he, “that we’ll need a little help. And this is about
as good a way to have a couple of willing lads hanging around as a
fellow could think of.”
Sergeant-Major Kretz was upon the wall; when the car drew up at the
gate he scrambled down inside. A moment or two later the gate was
opened, and Campe, much surprised, made his appearance.
“Back again,” said the big man, cheerfully, as he got out, followed by
the investigator. “Everything all right?”
“Everything,” replied the young man. He shook hands with Ashton-Kirk,
and added: “I’m very glad to see you again.”
Scanlon looked about. There was no one within ear-shot, so he remarked:
“You didn’t say anything further about that matter we talked about the
other night, so I thought I’d help you make up your mind by bringing my
friend to see you.”
If he expected young Campe to show surprise at hearing that
Ashton-Kirk was the person mentioned in that conversation, Scanlon was
disappointed. The young man merely said, quietly:
“It was rather a difficult thing to solve for myself. I’m glad that
you’ve done it for me.” Then addressing the special detective, he
added: “Will you come in?”
The car was driven into the courtyard; then the two men followed Campe
into the house. When they had seated themselves at a table in one
corner of the trophy-hung room, Ashton-Kirk said:
“It is always more or less presumptuous to interfere in the private
affairs of another. However, there are times, and all persons of
experience have encountered them, when this does not hold good. A man
occasionally gets into such deep water that he is helpless; at the same
time there may be reasons, as I understand there are in your case,
which may prevent his asking for help.”
Young Campe regarded the speaker attentively.
“Well?” said he.
The long fingers of Ashton-Kirk pattered upon the edge of the table; he
met the gaze of the other with steady eye.
“In such cases,” said he, “comparison usually figures very strongly.
Some danger threatens a man. But he fears to appeal for help. Why?
Because the thing which threatens is as nothing compared with another
thing which a call for help might expose.”
Scanlon saw the peaked face of young Campe twitch, but the intent look
never left his eyes.
“What more?” asked he.
“And yet it may be,” said Ashton-Kirk, “that this hidden thing may be
none of the endangered person’s doing. A demand may be made upon him by
those threatening him, which he may be unable to meet.”
“Well?” said the young man again, and Scanlon noticed that his voice
trembled a little.
“Suppose,” said the crime specialist, “a wealthy family fell into hard
days. Suppose the head of that family, in a moment of weakness, allowed
himself to be approached by--well, we’ll say--a criminal organization.
Let us further suppose that after he had gone into a shady matter
pretty deeply, his position suddenly and legitimately mended, and in
consequence he washed his hands of all crooked dealing.”
“Go on,” said young Campe, and his face was pale as death.
“Again let us suppose,” continued Ashton-Kirk, calmly, “that in so
leaving the councils of the criminals he took with him something
vitally necessary to their success. They demanded it of him; he
refused; and, to still further suppose, we’ll say that one morning a
yacht called the _Conquistador_ was blown into----”
Here the young master of Schwartzberg came to his feet; his eyes
gleamed like those of an insane person, and his voice was husky and
broken.
“What do you know?” he asked.
“I think,” replied Ashton-Kirk, quietly, “I have a fair idea as to what
_has_ happened in Mexico, and what _is_ happening here. And if you care
to have me proceed in the matter, and will lend me what assistance I
need, there is a good chance that by this time to-morrow you will have
left all your fears and worries behind you.”
For a moment the young man sat staring; then he reached forward one
shaking hand and laid it upon the speaker’s arm.
“Sir,” said he, “if you can do that, you will have saved me from death
or from the madhouse.”
Ashton-Kirk placed his hand upon that of Campe.
“Consider it done then,” said he quietly. “Scanlon has told you,
perhaps, that I have some small talent in matters of this sort. And I
think,” nodding and smiling, “I see a fairly open field before me.”
Bat looked impressively at the master of the castle.
“He’s had this thing cooking only since the day I first brought him
here,” said he. “But he’s got a fire under it as hot as a lower berth
in Hades. And so if he says he’ll serve it to-day, all done, believe
him. For he’s just the kind of a fellow to do it.”
“Mr. Ashton-Kirk’s first visit here was not all chance then,” said
Campe.
“Not quite,” returned Bat, unblushingly. “You see, along about the time
of that visit I had got it fixed fast in my mind that everything was
not just what it ought to be around here; and as I didn’t think myself
man enough for the job, I took a day off and got Kirk.”
“Thank you,” said Campe. “I felt all along that something of the sort
would be the best thing I could do, but I never quite got up the
courage to take the step. If there had been myself only to think of,”
and his glance went from the big man to Ashton-Kirk, “I might have done
it. But there was some one else, and that is what stopped me.”
Now, however, that the time for action seemed to have arrived, there
was a stain of colour in his cheeks, his hand grew steadier, and a look
of purpose came into his eyes.
“You spoke of my giving you assistance,” said he to the crime
specialist. “Give it a name; I am ready.”
“Good!” said Ashton-Kirk, satisfaction in his voice. “Then we’ll begin
at once.” He went to a window and looked out into the courtyard where
the warm sun flooded the stones. “It’s a beautiful day,” said he. Then:
“You have no car here, Mr. Campe?”
“No, we have no use for one, as we seldom go any distance.”
“A run will be a novelty. Take my car. Also my driver, and both Miss
Knowles and your aunt.”
Campe looked at him questioningly.
“I went over the house some days ago,” said Ashton-Kirk, calmly,
meeting the look, “and I should like to go over it again--in my own
way.”
There was a little space of silence; once Scanlon thought the young man
was about to refuse. But when he spoke, “Very well,” he said.
“As the country round about is a fine one, and you have not done it
before, don’t be in a hurry to return,” spoke the special detective.
“Take plenty of time. And say nothing to the ladies as to why I am
here. We don’t want to startle them, you know.”
“I will say nothing,” said young Campe, and then he left the room.
The next half hour was spent by Ashton-Kirk in smoking and talking with
Scanlon upon almost every other subject than the matter in hand. Then
Campe returned, and with him were Miss Hohenlo and Miss Knowles.
The former was all on a flutter, but the younger woman, so Scanlon
noticed, was eager-eyed and watchful.
“She knows that something’s doing,” observed Bat to himself. “And she’s
wondering just what it is.”
“It’s so very kind of you, Mr. Ashton-Kirk, to come again so soon,”
said Miss Hohenlo, girlishly. “It will do Frederic such a great deal
of good to get his mind into some fresh matters. He’s been so very
downcast of late; and I’m quite sure that interesting himself in Count
Hohenlo’s life and times will benefit him greatly.”
“And it’s so kind of you to put your car at our service,” said Miss
Knowles. “We go out so little since we came to Schwartzberg. Frederic
came swooping into the room just now with the news, and we were as
delighted as children.” Her eyes went to Scanlon, and then back to the
crime specialist. “But,” she suggested, “won’t you find it very dull
here while we are gone?”
“Quite the contrary,” replied Ashton-Kirk. “There are many things in
which I can interest myself.”
“There are some of the Count’s journals in the library,” said Miss
Hohenlo. “Please don’t overlook them. His views upon his time are quite
charming.”
“Quite,” said the tall Miss Knowles. “I’ve read one or two of
them--charming, leisurely things, in the most beautiful handwriting.”
“The Count knew so many wonderful people,” said Miss Hohenlo. “His
anecdotes of them are so striking and so characteristic. It was a day
when personal quality told in one’s favour. Nowadays people are so
hopelessly alike.”
Ashton-Kirk smiled. “Don’t you think they only appear to be so?” said
he.
But Miss Hohenlo shook her head.
“No,” she said, “I am quite sure that as time goes on, people grow more
and more alike. We live in such crowds, you see, there is very little
opportunity for us to be different.”
“In the Count’s day, dress had so much to do with the impression
one made,” said the special detective. “Many a man has won fame by
introducing a new periwig, or had himself talked about in the coffee
houses for months because of an elaboration of the buckles of his
shoes.”
When the car containing the two women and young Campe rolled through
the gateway and the gate closed behind them, Scanlon looked at
Ashton-Kirk.
“Well,” said he, “where do we begin?”