Ashton-Kirk, Special Detective. John T. McIntyre

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      CHAPTER IV

       TELLS SOMETHING OF THE MAN IN THE ROLLING CHAIR

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      “Campe!” cried Bat Scanlon, his eyes upon the fleeing man, and his hand going, with the instinctive movement of an old gun fighter, to his hip. “And giving his little performance outside once more.”

      But the keen eyes of the crime specialist had picked up details which the other had missed. He shook his head.

      “No,” said he. “Campe is a young man, you say. This one is past middle life. And also he seems sadly out of condition, and does not run at all like a man who once took middle distance honors.”

      The searching column of light still clung to the running man; again and again came the light shocks of the distant rifle.

      “The woman has faded out of the lime-light,” observed Scanlon.

      “And the man is trying his best to duplicate the feat. Look—there he goes!”

      With a wild side leap, the fugitive vanished into a shallow ravine, out of range of both the ray and the rifle. At this the search-light was snapped off and darkness once more settled over the hills.

      “Your German sergeant-major is no surprising 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 desire would have been to take up their course in the direction of the recently enacted drama, he did not say. 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 a half dozen giant sycamores towered above all.

      “There it is,” said Scanlon. “And it looks as though it had been there for some time, eh?”

      “A fine, cheery old place,” commented Ashton-Kirk, his eyes upon the erratic gables, the twinkling windows and the welcoming porch. "Many a red fire has burned upon its snug hearths of a winter night; and many a savory dish has come out of its kitchen. Traveling in the old days was not nearly so comfortable as now; but it had its recompenses.”

      Their feet crunched upon the gravel walk, and then sounded hollowly in the empty spaces of the porch. Scanlon pushed open a heavy door which admitted them to a great room with a low ceiling, beamed massively, and colored as with smoke. The floor was sanded; a fire of pine logs roared up a wide throated chimney; brass lamps, fixed in sockets in the walls, threw a warm yellowish glow upon polished pewter tankards and painted china plates. The tables and chairs were of oak, scrubbed white by much attentive labor; prim hall curtains were at the small paned windows.

      A short man with a comfortable paunch, a white apron and a red lace came forward to greet them.

      “Good-evening, Mr. Scanlon,” said he, cordially. “I’m pleased to see you, sir. I’d been told you’d given us up and gone off to the city.”

      “Just for a breather, that’s all,” Scanlon informed him, as he and the crime specialist sat at a table near to the blazing hearth. It was still autumn, but there had been a dampness and a chill in the night air which made the snugness of the inn very comfortable.

      The red-laced landlord smiled genially.

      “I might have known that, even if the shooting is none too good, the bracing air would bring you back.”

      Ashton-Kirk glanced about the public room. A small, cramped-looking man sat at a table with a draught board before him, studying a complex move of the pieces through a pair of thick lensed glasses. A polished crutch stood at one side ol his chair, and a heavy walking stick at the other. Deeply absorbed in the problem and its working out was another man, younger, but drawn looking, who coughed and applied a handkerchief to his lips with great frequency.

      The hearty looking landlord caught the glances of the crime specialist, and smiled.

      “My customers are a fragile lot,” said he in a low voice. “The inns get only that kind in the winter,” as though in explanation, “and some of them are worse than these. It’s the air that does it.”

      “Makes them ill?” smiled Ashton-Kirk.

      “Bless you, no!” The landlord placed a broad hand to his mouth to restrain the great responsive laugh which seemed struggling in his chest “The air does ’em good, so the doctors say. Well, anyway,” his humorous eyes twinkling, “it does me good by getting me over the slim season. If it wasn’t for them, I’d have to close up after September’s done.”

      Scanlon ordered some cigars and coffee, and as the host moved away to procure these, he said:

      “The doctors are a great lot, eh? Once they piled all the high colored drugs into you that you’d hold; and now they talk fresh air until you’d almost believe you could live on that alone. There’s one old codger who’s got a pet patient here—some sort of a rare and costly complaint, I believe—and he insists on fresh air at all stages of the game. The patient, it seems, likes СКАЧАТЬ