Entering, he found Ashton-Kirk, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, standing staring at the grotesque flare of the candle.
“Hello,” said the big man, “I thought you were regularly sleepy.”
“I am—a little. But an idea occurred to me downstairs, and I’ve been trying to follow it out.”
Once more he resumed his pacing, his hands behind him, his eyes upon the floor.
“Imagination is, perhaps, man’s greatest gift,” said he. “Without it there would be little accomplished in the world. But there are times when one is forced to put the brakes upon it, or it would lead one astray.”
Scanlon looked at him curiously.
“What’s set you off on that?” asked he.
Ashton-Kirk stopped in his pacing, and lifted his head.
“That object he had given you on the bridge upon the occasion of your first visit, and which afterward had such a startling effect upon young Campe—what did you say it was like?”
“It was a stone—not very big—dark green in colour—and with a kind of hump upon one side of it.”