“Our little run out of town,” said Ashton-Kirk, “brought several things to my notice which singly would, perhaps, have suggested nothing; but collectively they indicated a possible condition, both picturesque and dangerous.”
“We ran into a small herd of things,” said Mr. Scanlon. “Just which of them do you mean?”
But Ashton-Kirk shook his head.
“The indications may prove erroneous,” said he. “The hour we spent among the hills around Schwartzberg was of the sort in which the imagination operates vividly; and in such work as we are now on, care must be taken as to what is fact and what fancy. Under such influences as were then abroad, the mind strings thoughts much as a child strings beads.”
He paused in his pacing and stood by the window, looking down into the shabby street. There was a tight look about the corners of his mouth; the eyes glittered a bit feverishly.
Up and down swarmed the alien horde in the street. The children seemed countless; the sounds and smells were thick, and of the near East.
The stands at the curbs, and at the walls of buildings were piled with wares of strange make, and with food that was questionable. Merchants in long coats, and with the inevitable cigarette between their fingers, pleaded eloquently with hedging customers.
Women in bright shawls, which were pulled up about their heads and faces, huddled upon steps and peered out at the turmoil about them; the dull red walls of the buildings and their dirty windows were unpleasantly prominent in the morning sun.
Suddenly Ashton-Kirk turned upon Scanlon.
“What do you think of the Campe household?” he asked. “Take them one at a time, beginning with the lowest in importance—how do they stand in the light of your two weeks’ acquaintance with them?”