“Yes,” she replied. “And now that I do, I think it very strange that it did not occur to me before. But I was so full of the thought of helping Mr. Campe, even though he did treat me like a child and refused to confide in me, that I never dreamed any one might suspect me of being one of those who were threatening him.”
She turned to Scanlon.
“I thought all the time that you would understand. That is why I hinted at this and that, and called your attention in an indirect way to those things which excited my suspicions.
“And, oh,” with a gesture, “there were so many of them. I suspected the people at the inn from the beginning because I once saw a crippled man there who had been a friend of Mr. Campe’s father in Mexico, and who afterward, for some reason, became his enemy. The strange footprints which I’d see of a morning upon the river bank put dread into my heart, and the stealthy figures that I’d see there sometimes of a night, as I looked from my window, filled me with fear. I then began to suspect a traitor in Schwartzberg, and took to searching and prying and listening; and on the night when I found the door to the vault standing open and saw a stranger ascending the stairs, I felt sure of it.”
“Was that the night that Mrs. Kretz shut the door, and there was a pistol shot, and you cried out?” asked Bat.
“Yes,” replied Miss Knowles. “But,” she went on, “I think I had other reasons to be suspicious. As you say, Mr. Scanlon, these are queer times. Things here are odd—strange; like yourself, I do not understand them. What is there about this harp,” and she laid her hand upon the instrument, “which attracts me so strongly—for what purpose is it being used other than the melody a player it could strike from its strings? Take that great blade upon the wall,” here she turned her face toward the two-handed sword resting against the strip of tapestry between the windows. “It seems evident enough—there does not look to be anything about it of a secret nature. And yet there is! But I don’t know what, though I have tried to discover many and many times; and I have stolen it away to my room more than once. But it was no use.” There was a short silence, then she went on, to Scanlon: “On the night that you followed Mr. Campe and me out along the path, and you told the story of the officer whose sword trailed upon the ground, I felt sure that you had discovered something about this weapon, and were, perhaps, trying to convey it to me secretly. But I saw afterward that this was not so.”
“Tell me,” said Scanlon, who felt much as if the floor were slipping from under his feet, “what was the idea of the walk on that night?”
“Mr. Campe was depressed; his spirit was sinking; he shook with fear of what was outside. I knew that facing a danger was tonic, while cowering at the mental picture of it was spirit-killing. So I thought it would do him good if he went out, voluntarily, if only for a few moments—no matter what the danger. Of course he did not understand why I wanted him to go; neither did Kretz, who protested very strongly.”
Bat looked at the crime specialist, who smiled in an amused sort of way; then he said to the girl:
“You say you took the sword to your room to examine it? How about the harp? Ever take that away with you?”