Ashton-Kirk, Investigator
By John T. McIntyre.
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To my Friend
Grant Gibney
Introduction
Ashton-Kirk, who has solved so many mysteries, is himself something of a problem even to those who know him best. Although young, wealthy, and of high social position, he is nevertheless an indefatigable worker in his chosen field. He smiles when men call him a detective. “No; only an investigator,” he says.
He has never courted notoriety; indeed, his life has been more or less secluded. However, let a man do remarkable work in any line and, as Emerson has observed, “the world will make a beaten path to his door.”
Those who have found their way to Ashton-Kirk’s door have been of many races and interests. Men of science have often been surprised to find him in touch with the latest discoveries, scholars searching among strange tongues and dialects, and others deep in tattered scrolls, ancient tablets and forgotten books have been his frequent visitors. But among them come many who seek his help in solving problems in crime.
“I’m more curious than some other fellows, that’s all,” is the way he accounts for himself. “If a puzzle is put in front of me I can’t rest till I know the answer.” At any rate his natural bent has always been to make plain the mysterious; each well hidden step in the perpetration of a crime has always been for him an exciting lure; and to follow a thread, snarled by circumstances or by another intelligence has been, he admits, his chief delight.
There are many strange things to be written of this remarkable man—but this, the case of the numismatist Hume, has been selected as the first because it is one of the simplest, and yet clearly illustrates Ashton-Kirk’s peculiar talents. It will also throw some light on the question, often asked, as to how his cases come to him.
A second volume that shows the investigator deep in another mystery, even more intricate and puzzling than this, is entitled Ashton-Kirk and the Scarlet Scapular.
Ashton-Kirk, Investigator
I
Pendleton Calls Upon Ashton-Kirk
Young Pendleton’s car crept carefully around the corner and wound in and out among the pushcart men and dirty children.
About midway in the block was a square-built house with tall, small-paned windows and checkered with black-headed brick. It stood slightly back from the street with ancient dignity; upon the shining doorplate, deeply bitten in angular text, was the name “Ashton-Kirk.”
Here the car stopped; Pendleton got out, ascended the white marble steps and tugged at the polished, old-fashioned bell-handle.
A grave-faced German, in dark livery, opened the door.
“Mr. Ashton-Kirk will see you, sir,” said he. “I gave him your telephone message as soon as he came down.”
“Thank you, Stumph,” said Pendleton. And with the manner of one perfectly acquainted with the house, he ascended a massively balustraded staircase. The walls were darkly paneled; from the shadowy recesses pictured faces of men and women looked down at him.
Coming in from the littered street, with its high smells and crowding, gesticulating people, the house impressed one by its quiet, its spaciousness, and the evident means and culture of its owner. Pendleton turned off at the first landing, proceeded along a passage and finally knocked at a door. Without waiting for a reply, he walked in.
At the far end of a long, high-ceilinged apartment a young man was lounging in an easy-chair. At his elbow was a jar of tobacco, a sheaf of brown cigarette papers and a scattering of books. He lifted a keen dark face, lit up by singularly brilliant eyes.
“Hello, Pen,” greeted he. “You’ve come just in time to smoke up some of this Greek
