"What was the idea of telling the 'bulls' those things? You don't give your clues away as a rule."
Again Ashton-Kirk laughed.
"I don't think headquarters will go very far on what indications they get from the lawn at this stage," said he, drily. "So I don't anticipate much interference from them. And," with a nod of the head which told Scanlon everything and nothing, "I have a little theory which I desire to try out. And I expect an answer within twenty-four hours."
CHAPTER XV
Scanlon States His Position
It was a fall Sunday, misty and with a fine rain falling; the mean street in which Ashton-Kirk's house stood—once the street of the city's aristocracy, but now crowded with the hordes of East Europe—looked sodden and cheerless. Bat Scanlon, as he mounted the wide stone steps and rang the bell, looked about and philosophized.
"Funny how things have their ups and downs—men as well as streets. And this is one of my days for being down. Down at the bottom, too," disconsolately; "at the bottom, with all my vexations piled up on top of me."
Stumph, grave of face, and altogether the very model of men-servants, opened the door.
"Yes, sir," said he, in reply to Scanlon's question. "Mr. Ashton-Kirk is at home. You are to go up, sir."