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“Campe was past all reason when I got to him,” maintained he. “To talk candidly would only have spoilt any chance I had of doing him a good turn.”

The 8.4 was a dusty ill-kept train, which started and stopped with a series of jerks. After an hour on board of it, among a lot of uncomfortable, sour-looking passengers, the two got off at Marlowe Furnace. The station was a shed-like structure with a platform of hard-packed earth, and a brace of flaring oil lamps. An ancient, with a wisp of beard and thumbs tucked under a pair of braces, watched them get off.

“The station agent,” said Scanlon.

The train went panting and glaring away into the darkness; it had disappeared around a bend when the station official nodded to Scanlon.

“Evening,” greeted he.

“Hello,” said Scanlon.

“Back again, I see.”

“Yes—once more.”

“Nobody asked for you to-night.”

“That so?” said Scanlon, his glance going to Ashton-Kirk.

The detective dug carelessly at the hard-packed earth of the platform with the tip of the hickory stick.