“That, yes. Stones and crosses overturned, one grave opened.” He gave us a critical stare, but by now we were all registering proper shock and surprise. “Interesting, is it not, that the opened grave should be that of the steward?”

He left the table, stamping a little. George looked from me to Tony and started to speak. Tony stood up.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“It’s raining,” said George.

“I didn’t mean you.”

Rothenburg looked thoroughly medieval in the rain. There were few pedestrians, and the old gabled houses leaned together like gossipy ladies. I knew Tony wanted to get away so we could talk freely, but his first remark took me by surprise.

“The blanket,” he said, groaning.

“The what? Oh, that. It wasn’t marked. Just an ordinary cheap blanket.”

Tony looked relieved.

“Smart,” he said.

“Your conversation is very oblique today,” I complained. “You are now referring to the Black Man? Yes, it was smart of him to attack several graves. The town authorities will be looking for an ordinary sickie. He didn’t fool Blankenhagen, though.”

“Blankenhagen is too damned bright for his own good.”

“You are suggesting that he did the desecrating himself?”

“He could have.”

“The man we saw was too tall. And don’t tell me we were misled by the costume and the general air of brimstone. I think Blankenhagen is okay.”

“You would.”

“George is tall enough, but he has an alibi, if you believe the Gräfin.”

“Nobody has a good-enough alibi for anything,” Tony said sweepingly—but I could see his point. “Remember what is at stake, in terms of cold hard cash. The value of the shrine is literally incalculable—a hundred thousand, two hundred, maybe half a million bucks. That’s a lot of dough, even for a man who considers African safaris and original Rembrandts among the necessities of life. I know Nolan is rich—so he says. How do I know how much he’s got and how much more he may fancy he needs? The day after he suggested an alliance I got stabbed. Not seriously, just badly enough to make me require help. No, I don’t accept the Gräfin’s word, or anybody else’s.”

“Tony… Are you sure any person is behind all this?”

“Don’t tell me you, of all people, are going over to the spiritualists.”

“A scholar is supposed to keep an open mind. All our instincts are against a supernormal explanation, but instincts aren’t logic. How do we know?”

“Well.” Tony brushed raindrops off his face and thought. “For one thing, this business is too corny to be supernatural.”

“Corny?”

“So far we have had a séance, with spirit possession, a White Lady walking by night, a perambulating suit of armor, a diabolical character in a black cloak, and even a semi-dead man with a look of stark staring horror. It isn’t even good horror fiction; it’s straight out of The Mysteries of Udolpho. By some straining of the brain I could believe in ghosts; but I can’t believe in a ghost that acts like Terror Comics.”