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Ashton-Kirk shook his head.

“Pretty bad,” said he.

“That’s what I thought. And I mentioned the fact to him. But he tried to laugh—it was a complete failure—and said there was nothing wrong. He was a little nervous; and even that, so he said, would wear off after a while.

“The day I spoke to him in this way was the last I saw of him until about two weeks ago. Then I got a letter, asking me to pack a bag and run up to Marlowe Furnace for a visit. ‘The shooting’s good,’ says he, ‘and I’ve got a brace of dogs that’ll give you some excitement.’

“‘This,’ says I, to myself, ‘is just about the right thing. Nothing’d suit me better now than to fuss with a dog and a gun.’

“So I wrote him I’d come at once. Marlowe Furnace, if you don’t know the place, is about twenty miles out, tucked away among the hills. It was quite a place in revolutionary times; they beat out sword blades and bayonets there, and cast cannon, and the round shot to stuff them with.

“There’s only a few houses, with an inn for summer visitors; and there’s a little covered bridge crosses the river, just like a picture on a plate. Campe was holding out at Schwartzberg, or Castle Schwartzberg, as the people of the town call it. The castle is a regular robber-baron kind of a place, with a wall around it, towers, battlements, little windows with heavy bars, and all the rest of the fixings.”