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“I get a general atmosphere of fear—of an impending something—of an invisible danger,” said Ashton-Kirk. “But there’s nothing in what you’ve told me which permits of a hand-grip, so to speak.”

“I told you,” began Scanlon, “there isn’t a single thing which——”

“I don’t expect anything definite,” said the special detective. “Give me the details of your stay at Schwartzberg. Perhaps we can draw something from those.”

“Right,” said Mr. Scanlon. “Well, as soon as I put my foot on the station platform at Marlowe Furnace, the thing began. The station man said to me:

“‘You going to Schwartzberg?’

“‘Yes,’ says I.

“‘A party’s been asking about you,’ says he.

“‘One of Campe’s people, I suppose.’

“‘No,’ says he. ‘I know all them. The party was a stranger.’

“I thought this a little queer, but I had my getting out to Campe’s place to think of; and as it was late and very dark, I said nothing more except to ask my way.

“‘Take the road down to the river,’ says the station man. ‘Then cross the bridge and turn to your right. You’ll see a lot of lights that look as if they were hanging away up in the air. That’s the castle.’