mly.

"If Tom Burton were alive," said he, "he might be able to tell you
something about the weight of such things. It was with just such another
he was killed."

"Oh, indeed!" Ashton-Kirk replaced the candlestick upon the shelf and
dusted his fingers with a handkerchief. "Well, we'll be running along,
Osborne." They shook hands with the detective. "Sorry we hadn't any
better luck."

"So am I," said Osborne, still complacently. "But it breaks that way
sometimes. We can't turn up new stuff where it doesn't exist."

"True," said Ashton-Kirk, as he descended from the porch to the paved
walk. "That's very true. But thank you just the same. And good-bye."

And so with Scanlon at his side, he set off at a smart pace toward the
railroad station.

CHAPTER VI

ASHTON-KIRK ASKS QUESTIONS

Ashton-Kirk dismissed his car in front of a restaurant in the center of
the city; he and his friend had luncheon in a quiet corner, then lighted
cigars and smoked while they sipped their coffee.

"This is the second little matter I've had to put up to you," said Bat
Scanlon. "I hope it won't grow into a habit."

"If it has any of the entertaining qualities of the other case," smiled
the investigator, "I shall be greatly beholden to you."

Bat shook his head, and watched a cloud of white, thin smoke vanish in
the air.

"That hardly seems likely," said he. "Stanwick ain't the place for
mystery that Warwick Furnace was; and on the face of it, anyway, 620
Duncan Street can't touch Castle Schwartzberg for thrills. Beside that,
the Campe affair[1] just sizzled with stuff, while this one, like as
not, is finished already."

Ashton-Kirk smiled, and drew slowly at his cigar; this latter had a
spicy tang, a flavor which suggested hot suns and heavy dews; the taste
was rich, and the effect heady.

"Here is a cigar," said he, "which has all the flavor and shock of a
richer looking and more suggestive leaf." He indicated the rather
negative wrapper, and went on: "As you see, it hasn't any of that lush
darkness which one usually associates with potent tobacco. And all
because the wrapper was grown in Pennsylvania; for a casual inspection
tells nothing of the tropical growth within."

"All of which is meant to mean----?" and Bat Scanlon looked at his
friend inquiringly.

"That one must not be too hasty in judging a thing by its externals. The
Campe case was surrounded by a sort of natural melodrama; the gloomy
hills, which appear