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“Well?” asked Ashton-Kirk.

“She was a peach; and Campe was nearly done. I lifted him, and with my automatic held ready, and the girl trailing behind, I got back to the castle where I heard the gate closed and locked behind me with some thankfulness.”

“Was Campe badly hurt?”

“He had a long, peculiar cut down his chest and stomach, not deep, but ugly looking. It was just as though some one had made a sweep at him with something big and heavy and keen, and he had pulled back in time to escape most of it. But he was about next day; he thanked me for going out after him, but would explain nothing. It was after this that I tried to reason it out for the last time. But it’s no use—the thing’s beyond yours truly. So here I am.”

The singular eyes of Ashton-Kirk were full of interest; he arose from his rug and took a couple of turns up and down the room; then he threw open a bulky railroad guide and his searching finger began to run in and out among the figures.

“There’s a train for Marlowe Furnace at 8.4,” said he.