They climbed to the top of a hill; the sky was thick with stars, and the light from them touched the high places with pale hands. But the hollows were black and deep looking; mystery followed the course of the slowly running river.
“What is there round about Campe’s place?” asked the crime specialist. “Is this the only road that leads there? What are his neighbours like?”
“To the first of those questions,” said Mr. Scanlon, “I reply, fields—also hills—also woods. There are roads passing Schwartzberg upon either side. As to neighbours, there’s a few farmers, and their help. And then there’s the man who flags the bad crossing down by the river, and the inn.”
“Ah, yes, you mentioned the inn before,” said Ashton-Kirk.
“A big, old-fashioned place—built back in the old days.”
“With a wide hearth and a hearty old landlord, whose father and grandfather owned the house before him.”
“Well, that’s how it ought to be, to be in the picture; but it happens that this landlord has been here for only about six months.”
Scanlon heard the hickory stick slashing at a clump of dried brush; then the crime specialist spoke:
“How far away is it?”
“A couple of miles.”