At seven-thirty Scanlon entered a train, and an hour later he was in the city; a taxi took him to Ashton-Kirk’s door, and Stumph showed him at once to his friend’s study.
“How are you,” said Ashton-Kirk, as he shook Scanlon, smilingly, by the hand, “and how did you leave every one at Schwartzberg?”
“I’m fine,” said Bat. “But there’s not much stirring at the castle. After one mad outburst of enthusiasm, everything seems to have come to a stand.”
The crime specialist nodded.
“The besieging army has not been very active, then,” said he. “I rather expected that.”
“You’d know more about the folks at the inn than I would,” said Bat. “I went over there yesterday for the first time in days. But no one was around. When did you leave?”
“If I had taken the hints the landlord and help gave me,” said Ashton-Kirk, grimly, “I’d have left the first day. I understand the statement of the other hotel keeper very well now; you know he told me that new guests never stayed long at the inn.”
“They didn’t want you, eh?” Scanlon chuckled. “Well, what could they do with a perfect stranger around, and all of them up to their ears in important private business?”
“But for once, anyhow, they failed,” said the special detective. “I needed a certain length of time to collect what facts I was after, and that time I was bound to stay. They did everything short to burn the place about my ears, but I ignored their efforts and talked about my liver. I got all the information I wanted by last night, and as Burgess wired me that Fuller’s report had arrived, I left this morning.”
“I sort of thought you’d had word from Mexico,” said Bat. “But before you tell me what it is, maybe I’d better unload my further experiences as Schwartzberg.”