“If we can prevent any further entrances into the house itself, for the present, we’ll be satisfied,” said Campe.
Scanlon did not approve of this. It indicated a willingness to share something with the enemy.
“Which is always wrong,” he told himself, later, as he trudged along the road on his way to Marlowe Furnace. “If it was my affair, I’d shake it up till I had those crooks headed for the next county.”
Campe had abruptly closed the conversation of the night before with the request that no names be mentioned, and so Scanlon had been left in a state of doubt.
“He knows, or suspects about the girl,” thought the big man, “but what about these other people? Has he got them placed? I’d ’a told him all I’d seen and heard last night, but as he wanted silence, silence it is. Anyway,” as an afterthought, “it might have been a wrong move to say anything more than I did. Maybe Ashton-Kirk doesn’t want him told.”
There were no letters for him at the village post-office, and he was much disappointed. So much had happened to him in the last twenty-four hours that he had the feeling that Ashton-Kirk must also have had some exciting experiences which he would report at once.
“But he hasn’t had time to say anything,” reasoned the big man. “Maybe I’ll get something in the mail to-night.”
He stood upon the post-office steps and lighted a cigar; while he was puffing thoughtfully at this, he felt his arm jostled gently. Turning he saw an old man with a basket on his arm, and a hand tangled in a chin beard.
“How d’ye do?” asked the old man.
“Pretty fair,” said Bat.