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“Your German sergeant-major is a poor shot,” commented Ashton-Kirk. “He had his man in full view and missed him repeatedly.”

Scanlon shook his head.

“It must have been the light,” said he. “Kretz can shoot. I’ve seen him at it.”

They stood in silence for a few moments; the country road about seemed heavier with shadows than it had been before the appearance of the shifting beam of light; the stars looked fainter.

“That’s the second time I’ve seen that girl out here in the night,” continued the big man. “And each time the noise came, and things started doing. I wonder what’s the idea?”

“I fancy it’s a trifle early to venture an opinion upon anything having to do with this most interesting affair,” said his companion. “But,” quietly, “we may stumble upon an explanation as we go further into it.”

“I hope so,” said Scanlon, fervently. Then, in the tone of a man who had placed himself unreservedly in the hands of another, “What next?”

“I think we’d better go on to the inn.”

If the other thought the crime specialist’s wish would have been to take up their course in the direction of the recently enacted drama, he said nothing. He led the way along the narrow path, and through the gloomy growth of wood. They emerged after a space into a well-kept road, and holding to this, approached a rambling, many gabled old house which twinkled with lighted windows and gave out an atmosphere of cheer. A huge porch ran all around it; an immense barn stood upon one side; and half-a-dozen giant sycamores towered above all.