“‘Talk to me,’ says Campe. You see he fell for the bunk just as easy as that. ‘Talk to me,’ says he. For when a man’s in love with a woman,” continued Mr. Scanlon, sagely, “she can put anything across on him.”
“And so you think Campe is in love with Miss Knowles?”
“Up to his eyes.”
The big man laid the end of his cigar in an ash tray, and put a hand upon each knee.
“I don’t know whether you noticed it,” resumed he, “but this same Miss Knowles was peddling around a queer little line of samples yesterday while you were there. What was she hinting about? Eh? What was she saying one thing for, and meaning something else? She’s jollying Campe, that’s plain to me; but what’s this thing she’s trying to shoulder on to the little old maid?”
“It’s a peculiar household,” said Ashton-Kirk. He went to the table and began turning the leaves of one of the books carelessly. Scanlon, glancing at it, saw an array of skulls of differing formations, all down one of the pages. “And,” resumed the crime specialist, “it will probably take some weighing and judging before we get them properly placed.”
Leaving the book open, he once more thrust his hands into his pockets and resumed the pacing.
“Music,” said he, “is a delightful thing. Its powers to quiet and to uplift are tremendous.” There was a short pause, and then he added: “What’s your opinion of the harp as an instrument?”
Mr. Scanlon was very frank.
“Now you’ve got me bad,” said he. “All I know about it is what I heard a Sicilian do to it one season in Tucson. He was the orchestra in ‘File’ Brady’s saloon, and picked melody out of it to accompany the ballad singers. And,” here he looked shrewdly at Ashton-Kirk, “I know less about swords that you operate with both hands. As a weapon, this style of thing had gone out before I came into the desire to mix it with my fellow man.”