"Thanks," replied the investigator. "We had not the slightest difficulty."
"I'm glad to hear it, sir," said the man. "Good-night to you."
He flashed the same wish to the mute, who answered readily; then he went out and through the window they saw his light again go bobbing away in the darkness. Then the professor began to write once more.
"I beg your pardon," was his message in long-hand. "The man tells me that it was quite as you say. But I must confess I was a trifle startled."
"The lady," wrote Ashton-Kirk, "seemed startled, too."
For the fraction of a moment the mute halted in his reply. Then the pencil with much assurance formed the following:
"It was my niece. She was about to go just as you came; so do not reproach yourself for having driven her away."
For some time the penciled conversation continued between the two; but as it was all based upon the fanciful pupil whom the investigator stated he desired to place in Dr. Mercer's care, Pendleton paid little heed to it. At last, however, they bid the Professor good-by, and left him upon the threshold, his massive head nodding his adieus, his frail little body sharply outlined by the glow from the hall.
The two had reached their own car around on the other road before Pendleton spoke. Then he inquired:
"Well, have you learned anything from him?"