And with that Bat had him placed! There was something reminiscent in the combination of softness, even at first glance; but the mention of the railway station placed the tag upon him. It was the man whom the old station agent had described—the man of the bridge—the man who had given him the queer green stone.
Quietly the big man blew out a thin spiral of smoke.
“You go down this road,” said he, “until you come to a bridge. This you cross. Ten minutes further on, and there you are.”
The soft-looking man closed the leather-covered book; then he put it away carefully in one pocket, and the pencil in another.
“I am extremely obliged to you,” he said, gently. “Your directions, I think, will be very easy to follow.” He stroked his white soft chin with a hand that was equally thick and soft and white; and his eyes searched Scanlon’s face. “You live hereabouts, I suppose?”
“For the time being,” replied Bat, evenly. “It’s a nice kind of a place, and I’m sticking around a while.”
“Ah, yes, to be sure,” observed the soft man. “You are right. It is a nice place. Very picturesque, and also very historical, I understand.” He waved one hand in a stubby gesture toward the north. “I came that way. And just above I saw a most astonishing house.”
“Big one?” asked Bat. “Things on top?”
“A very big one,” agreed the other. “Very big, indeed; and, as you say, with things on the top.”
“That’s Schwartzberg,” said Bat. “A German castle, only not in Germany. The rule is to plant them along the Rhine, I believe, but the fellow who put this one in must have thought one river as good as another. And I agree with him.”