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“I shall be careful to put nothing else on display,” smiled Ashton-Kirk. “And now,” with seriousness, “one word before they get too near. I am simply a friend of yours. You saw me in the city, and as I professed an interest in Schwartzberg, you brought me out to put in an hour showing me over the place if the owner does not consider it too great a liberty.”

“I get you,” said Mr. Scanlon, briefly.

Here the two advancing men came up. Young Campe was a well-built fellow and of good height. But his face was pale; there was a wild look in his eyes, and his manner indicated extreme nervousness. Scanlon’s description of the German sergeant-major was quite accurate; he was square built and grim-faced; there was a thick greyish patch in the hair above each ear; and he carried himself with the stiff precision of a man trained in a European barrack.

“How are you?” cried Scanlon, shaking Campe by the hand. “Would have got here last night, but I had a friend with me, and we stopped at the inn. Mr. Ashton-Kirk,” nodding toward that gentleman, by way of introduction.