“Yes, we thought it was kind of queer,” he re-affirmed. “But then,” with a shake of his head, “I don’t know as we should, after all. For there’s such a lot of queer things going on around Schwartzberg that we shouldn’t be surprised at one more. What between some kind of thunder, and gun shots and people running and racing about in the night, that house has given this village something to think about.”
Bat grinned, and smoked away.
“So they think the castle’s a place of interest, do they?” he asked.
“It’s a place they’re afraid of,” said the old man. Since he had failed to get Scanlon to talk, he seemed determined to do the next best thing—talk himself. “Tom Gould’s constable here, and he’s thinking of looking into things.”
“Oh, well,” said Bat, “we can’t blame Tom for showing a little enterprise.”
“There ain’t never been any such goings on at Marlowe Furnace before,” stated the man with the basket. “And I don’t think folks’ll put up with it much longer. Shots and strange noises and finding people hurt in the middle of the road’ll never do. It ought to be seen into.”
“Why don’t you speak to Campe?” suggested Bat.
“How could I—or anybody else, if it comes to that?” demanded the ancient. “How often is he seen? And when he does come out, why does he look as if he was running away when he gits sight of anybody? What’s wrong with him? What’s he afraid of? What’s he done—him with his dogs, and his man on the wall, and his searchlight, frightening the women and kids?”
“I think,” said Bat, “you’re imagining a good deal of this. Anyway, it’s Campe’s own place, and I suppose he can do as he likes on it.”
He nodded to the old man with a smile, but as he walked away from the post-office he was thoughtful enough.