Ashton-Kirk, Investigator

veil was raised, and she was gingerly picking at the mechanism with hands sheathed in canvas gloves. With apparent intentness she took out tools; small parts were inspected minutely. And yet, for all that, there was something unusual in her manner; every now and then she would lift her head, casually, so it seemed, and glance away across the fields.

“And always to the right,” murmured the man in the treetop, after a little.

At once the big glass swept around in that direction.

“A house,” added the watcher, with great satisfaction.

The building was almost buried in a thick growth of trees; its white sides and red roof shone in the sun through branches abud with April.

Suddenly, in the midst of her labor, Miss Vale paused; her manner changed, the tools were dropped, the parts lost interest. Facing the house, she yawned, with arms thrown wide after the manner of one much wearied with a task; then she took off the gloves, unpinned her hat and smoothed her hair. This was gone through with careful elaboration and afterwards there was a pause; the girl then gathered up the things, got into the machine, placed the hat upon the seat beside her, went careening away with never a backward glance.

But the man in the tree seemed in no haste to follow; instead he covered the distant house with his glass and waited patiently. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour and finally an hour. At the end of that time, however, a figure emerged from the trees about the house and walked hastily toward the road; the eyes of the watcher glistened, his fine teeth shone in an appreciative smile.

Reaching the road where the car had stopped, the newcomer, who was young, well-dressed and rather good-looking, suddenly paused, stooped and lifted something from the ground. He held in his hands the work gloves of Miss Vale, which she had dropped after taking them off. For a moment the young man stood looking at them as though hesitating what to do; then he turned, went to the roadside and placed them carefully upon the top rail of the fence. Then trudging along on his way, he unsuspectingly passed beneath the maple which concealed the man with the glass.

When he was out of sight, the Italian slipped down the tree and ran lightly along the road to the place where the gloves lay. He took up one and looked within; but it was empty. However, in the thumb of the next was a slip of paper which bore a single line of writing:

“Tobin Rangnow.”

Studying this for a moment, the Italian made a copy of it. Then he slipped it back into the thumb of the glove and replaced both exactly as they were; after which he made his way back to the motorcycle, and mounting, went flying toward the city.

XVIII

Ashton-Kirk Tells Why

It was about four in the afternoon, and young Pendleton sat in Ashton-Kirk’s big chair, reading the newspapers and waiting. Finally he rang a bell and Stumph gravely appeared.

“Are you sure that he said three?” asked Pendleton.

“About three, sir,” replied the man.

“Oh! I suppose he’s been detained then. That will be all, Stumph!”

When the man disappeared, Pendleton lighted a cigar and resumed his reading. The Hume case was still holding its place as the news feature of the day. Nothing had occurred to equal it in sensation; and the huge headings flared across the front pages, undiminished and undismayed.

“Why,” screamed the Standard, in a perfect frenzy of letter press, “did Miss Edyth Vale visit Hume on the night of the murder?”

The girl’s name had crept into the paper on the day before; with each edition it appeared in larger type; and that afternoon the Standard was printing it in red ink. Allan Morris was not neglected; on the contrary, he figured a very close second to his betrothed in the types.

“Where is Allan Morris?”

One paper asked this question perhaps fifty times on each page. It peered at one in square, heavy-faced type from the bottoms of columns and between articles. There were interviews with his clerks; the opinions of his stenographer were given in full, together with her portrait; and what his manservant had to say was treated as being of great consequence.

Another sheet, which made a point of appealing to the tastes of the vast foreign element of the city, grew very indignant as to the arrest of Antonio Spatola.

“Why,” it inquired, “is this man detained and no attempt made to take those higher up into custody? If the Police Department is so ready to incarcerate a poor musician, why should it hesitate upon the threshold of the rich man’s mansion?⁠—or the rich woman’s, for the matter of that?”

This item incensed Pendleton beyond measure; he threw the paper aside and stormed up and down the room.

“Of all the blatant wretched twaddle I ever did read,” he exclaimed, “this is positively the worst. Why, the rag would have the police arrest Edyth⁠—arrest her for⁠—”

“Well,” demanded a sharp, aggressively pitched voice, “what for you make-a da blame, eh? Da cops pinch-a Spatola, and for why, eh? Because he’s da wop, da ginney, da dago and got-a no friends.”

At the first word Pendleton had whirled about in astonishment, and faced the speaker, who stood in the doorway, pointing with one hand in the attitude of melodrama.

“Well,” asked the young man, “who the deuce are you?”

By way of an answer the other burst into a laugh that showed his brilliant teeth; then he threw off his battered soft hat and gayly colored handkerchief, after which he sank into the chair which Pendleton had lately vacated.

“Pen,” said he, in an altered voice, “if you appreciate my friendship at all, give me one of the blackest cigars in the case over there.”

Pendleton stared for a moment; then a grin crept over his face and he said:

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” He went to the cabinet and