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“This road,” said Bat Scanlon, as they trudged along, “is rather direct; it leads on to an old mill built years ago, and now abandoned, and then down to the river.”

“All things considered,” spoke Ashton-Kirk, twirling his hickory stick, his keen eyes searching the ground, “we’d better get away from the roads and paths this morning, and head for Campe’s place, across country.”

Without any comment, Scanlon followed his lead. Down one slope and up another they went, skirting ravines and gullys, but always keeping the towers of Schwartzberg in sight. The crime specialist seemed in excellent humour; he whistled little airs, and cut at the stubble and withered stalks with his stick. But always were the keen, observant eyes travelling here and there; once or twice he left his companion and darted away; but he always returned in a very short time, smiling and shaking his head.

“An interesting place,” said he. “There are many indications of enterprise and thought. I shall have to go over it carefully; it promises to repay even a great deal of labour.”