Ashton-Kirk, Special Detective. John T. McIntyre

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СКАЧАТЬ cannot keep out thoughts. Peril in these later days is not as candid as in feudal times—it has a seeping quality—we can neither hear nor see it, at times, but it is there, nevertheless.”

      The girl looked at the speaker; and there was a smile in her blue eyes.

      “And you think a place like Schwartzberg might get its romance in such a very modern manner! I’ll not believe it Nothing but the clash of arms will satisfy me!”

      Young Campe laughed, but there was very little of mirth in the sound.

      “Why,” said he, “it may come to that in the end.”

      But Miss Knowles made a pretty gesture of protest.

      “Please don’t make game of me, Frederic,” she said. “You mean the vagrants who have been giving you so much trouble. They make very poor substitutes for men in armor, and I refuse to consider them.”

      Room after room was visited and admired; each was in keeping, both in furnishing and decoration, with the period of the building’s architecture.

      “It is really tremendous,” said Ashton-Kirk, “and must require a horde of servants to keep it in order.”

      “We have only two besides Kretz—and they are his wife and daughter.”

      “I should like to see the kitchen,” said the crime specialist. “Very different, I suppose, from our present compact institutions.”

      The kitchen was as huge as imagined; its bricked floor was scrubbed clean; its copper utensils gleamed upon the walls; the great fireplace held a turnspit upon which hung a goose, attended by a stolid-looking girl.

      “The sergeant-major’s daughter?” asked Ashton-Kirk.

      “Yes, and here is her mother.”

      A heavy, vacant-looking woman entered the kitchen with some vegetables; she gave but a passing glance at the visitors, and tucking up her sleeves, proceeded indifferently about her duties.

      As they reached the roof of Schwartzberg, Ashton-Kirk saw the search-light, which he had witnessed in operation the night before, mounted on one of the towers. It was a powerful affair, and seemed in perfect order. But as to its uses Campe said nothing; he passed it by as though it did not exist.

      Away in every direction stretched the faded countryside; the hills swelled, the tops of the denuded trees waved starkly in the breeze.

      “The prospect is sober at this time of the year,” said Ashton-Kirk, as he gazed out over the hills. “But the summer at Schwartzberg, I should say, is very beautiful.”

      Young Campe nodded.

      “Yes,” said he, “it is. I have not spent much time here before now; but the pleasant months would be well enough—if there were nothing else.”

      “Ah!” said Ashton-Kirk, “there are drawbacks, then. Nothing serious, I hope.”

      He looked at the young man with a smile.

      “The plumbing, perhaps,” said he. “It seldom is what it should be in houses like this.”

      But Campe shook his head, and made no reply. His eyes, still with the old haunted look lurking in them, went out over the country, and one hand stroked his chin.

      There was very little conversation while they remained upon the roof. Descending, they were passing along a broad corridor when the sound of a harp, waveringly played, was heard and a voice singing a lied.

      Ashton-Kirk, trailing observantly along in the rear, saw the girl start at this and pause. A strange look came into her face; her hand went to her lips as though to prevent the words she was already speaking.

      “Surely,” she said, sweetly, “Mr. Kirk should not go without a view of the tapestries.”

      Young Campe looked perplexed.

      “You see,” said he to Ashton-Kirk, “there are some rare hangings—some six or seven centuries old, I understand. And they are quite well worth seeing. But my aunt is there,” and he gestured toward a door, “and I’m not at all sure that she—”

      He hesitated; and the girl spoke quickly.

      “She’ll be pleased to see a visitor.”

      Then without waiting for a reply, she knocked upon the door and went in. In a moment she held the door wide and smiled out at the three men.

      “You may come in,” she said.

      Upon entering the apartment Ashton-Kirk noted that it was much more elaborately furnished than the other portions of the castle. Various periods had been called upon for luxurious fittings; costly rugs were upon the floor; magnificent paintings covered the walls; small carvings, very miracles of workmanship, were many; and the tapestries, which hung against and covered the far wall, were gorgeous examples of that ancient mystery.

      “My aunt, Miss Hohenlo,” said Campe, “Mr. Ashton-Kirk.”

      “I hope you’ll pardon the intrusion,” said the crime specialist

      Miss Hohenlo smiled graciously. She was a small woman, and thin, with faded brown hair and dull gray eyes. She was elaborately dressed and rather showily; about her neck hung a string of splendid jewels. Her hands were remarkably small and white and well kept; she fingered the strings of a gilt harp, and showed them delicately and to advantage.

      “Indeed,” said she, “it is no intrusion. Any friends of Frederic are my friends; I try to impress that upon him. The tapestries are, of course, wonderful, and that lovers of beauty should desire to see them is, of course, to be expected.”

      She had a mincing, artificial manner of speech, much after the way of a lady in a mid-Victorian novel; not once did she forget her hands; carefully she touched the strings of the harp; with many little turns and flourishes she showed their whiteness, their smallness, their delicacy.

      She spoke of the tapestry and not of her hands, but it was plain to be seen which of the two she thought the more worthy of attention; so Ashton-Kirk conversed with her and admired the caresses she bestowed upon the strings.

      “The harp,” said Miss Hohenlo, “is a beautiful instrument; in fact, I will say it is the most graceful of instruments. The Romans and the Greeks, also, preferred it to the lyre and other forms of string arrangement”

      “It is perhaps the most ancient of instruments,” said Ashton-Kirk. “We trace it back to the Egyptians, and have no assurance that it was not known even before the time of that astonishing people. That the tight-drawn string of some war-dor’s bow first suggested the musical possibility of the form is more than likely true. Can you not imagine the earliest minstrel chanting his song of victory to the twanging of the bowstring which helped to bring that victory about?”

      Never once since they entered the room had the golden-haired Miss Knowles taken her eyes from the face of the woman with the harp; and she wore a curiously expectant expression which Ashton-Kirk did not fail to note.

      “Miss Hohenlo is devoted to her instrument,” she said. “And such attachment is always charming.”

      Miss СКАЧАТЬ