“Now that we are out,” he said, “I don’t mind telling you that I have been there before. Do you remember the night you left, and, the face at the window?”
“When you speak of it—yes.”
“Well, I was curious about that thing,” he went on, as we started up the street, “and I went back. The street door was unlocked, and I examined every room. I was Mrs. Klopton’s ghost that carried a light, and clumb.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Only a clean place rubbed on the window opposite your dressing-room. Splendid view of an untidy interior. If that house is ever occupied, you’d better put stained glass in that window of yours.”
As we turned the corner I glanced back. Half a block behind us Johnson was moving our way slowly. When he saw me he stopped and proceeded with great deliberation to light a cigar. By hurrying, however, he caught the car that we took, and stood unobtrusively on the rear platform. He looked fagged, and absent-mindedly paid our fares, to McKnight’s delight.
“We will give him a run for his money,” he declared, as the car moved countryward. “Conductor, let us off at the muddiest lane you can find.”
At one o’clock, after a six-mile ramble, we entered a small country hotel. We had seen nothing of Johnson for a half hour. At that time he was a quarter of a mile behind us, and losing rapidly. Before we had finished our luncheon he staggered into the inn. One of his boots was under his arm, and his whole appearance was deplorable. He was coated with mud, streaked with perspiration, and he limped as he walked. He chose a table not far from us and ordered Scotch. Beyond touching his hat he paid no attention to us.
“I’m just getting my second wind,” McKnight declared. “How do you feel, Mr. Johnson? Six or eight miles more and we’ll all enjoy our dinners.” Johnson put down the glass he had raised to his lips without replying.
The fact was, however, that I was like Johnson. I was soft from my week’s inaction, and I was pretty well done up. McKnight, who was a well spring of vitality and high spirits, ordered a strange concoction, made of nearly everything in the bar, and sent it over to the detective, but Johnson refused it.