At one side stretched a high-walled garden with the tops of a few stunted trees just showing their heads, and close at the back of the place one could see a collection of farm buildings, very like the mansion architecturally, only greyer and more weathered. A fairly steep roof, crow-stepped gables, rough-cast walls, and rather small windows seemed to my untutored eye to be the chief features of the whole stone gathering.
"Somebody very primitive obviously lives here," I said to myself as I pulled the bell.
Out it came bodily in my hand, so I carefully pushed it back, and tried a large brass knocker instead, a massive affair that looked as though it had once been part of a shipwreck. I knocked once, I knocked twice, I knocked thrice, and then the door opened and I enjoyed a fresh sensation.
Instead of the prehistoric being I had expected, a girl stood in the open door looking at me out of a quite remarkably bright pair of eyes—disconcertingly bright in fact. She was dressed in the very smartest and most-up-to-date country kit; short tweed skirt of a pleasing greenish hue, stockings to match, brown brogued shoes, and a blouse that might have come from Paris. Her hair was dressed as fashionably as the rest of her, and her face was of precisely the kind I had least expected to see, rather thin with neatly chiselled features and delicate eye-brows, and an entirely sophisticated expression. There was no doubt she was decidedly pretty, and quite delightfully fresh and trim looking. But her eyes were her best feature. As I looked straight into them for an instant I could scarcely bring myself to play the part I had arranged. They seemed as though they would be a little difficult to deceive.
However, thank Heaven I have lived down most of the virtues that embarrass the young. I had lied before, been found out, and lived through it; so I clicked my heels together, bowed, and enquired,
"Is Master Rindall in?"
(My accent wasn't really quite as bad as that, but I should have to invent fresh vowels to illustrate what it actually sounded like.)
I had expected some slight symptoms of alarm, but she answered with perfect composure and in a voice that matched the hair and blouse,
"Yes, he is. Will you come in?"
I bowed again and entered the mansion of Mr. Rendall.
As I followed the girl through the hall, a man's voice asked,
"Is that O'Brien?"
"No," she said, "it's some one to see you, father."
She showed me into a room and closed the door, and in the course of the next few minutes I came to one or two pretty obvious conclusions. She was clearly Mr. Rendall's daughter, and they were equally clearly in the habit of receiving visits at odd times from Mr. O'Brien; in fact they evidently concluded it was he, or Miss Rendall herself would scarcely have opened the door to me. Also, her reply might be taken as implying that if Mr. O'Brien had been the visitor, it would not have been her father he had come to see. But whether or no this were the true interpretation, I so thoroughly disliked and suspected O'Brien that any suggestion of intimacy was alone enough to make me glad I had started on the defensive.
"Otherwise," said I to myself, "what a charming girl to find in such a place!"
However, I reminded myself that I had not come here to be charmed, and proceeded next to take stock of the room.
It was not large, but pleasantly proportioned, low in the ceiling, and pervaded with a delicate yet distinct flavour of the past, I found myself instinctively wondering how one could reproduce this particular flavour on the stage; no armour or tapestry or any of the usual antique paraphernalia to be allowed, for beyond the thick walls and rather small windows, it was so difficult to lay one's finger on any one specific thing that palpably suggested age. Finally I decided that it was impossible to re-create such an atmosphere. It was compounded of stillness within and the glimpses of primeval quiet without, of a touch of comfortable shabbiness, of plenty of elderly books, and of a faint odour of the dampness of centuries mingled with the scent of honeysuckle. My suspicions were suddenly lulled, and with that prompt decision which has landed me in and pulled me out of so many holes, I decided to drop my German accent. That the charming Miss Rendall might miss it, and wonder what had become of it, was (I must confess) a reflection which did not occur to me till afterwards.
Just as I had come to this decision, in walked the laird, and in two minutes I had come to another decision, which was to adhere to the plan of campaign I had thought of as I walked, in so far as keeping my business to myself was concerned. My first impression of Mr. Rendall was of height, and a certain quiet, formidable quality. He was grey-haired, with a close-clipped grizzled moustache, loose clothes as though he had shrunk a little in girth, and the unmistakable air of a man who had seen considerably more of the world than the island of Ransay. He received me quite politely and hospitably, but with every moment that passed I grew more acutely conscious of something deterrent behind his courtesy. A sense of a strong personality in the background, not actually hostile as yet, but ironic and critical, set me instinctively and instantly on guard. Not that I actually suspected the man; but to take him straightway into my confidence was simply impossible. A man of another temperament might have done so—and quite possibly have been right; but his effect on me was like tapping a limpet.
I gave him my name and then I said in a quiet confidential way,
"Forgive this intrusion, Mr. Rendall, but the fact is my ship has evidently been called away."
I glanced towards the window, and following my look he could see the smoke of the cruiser just visible on the horizon. He gave a little nod but said nothing.
"I was landed last night on a certain piece of business," I went on, "and it is no part of that business to make myself conspicuous, and so I have taken the liberty of coming to your house."
"You wish to wait here till your ship returns?" he enquired.
"I thought perhaps you might know of some lodging where I might remain quietly."
He smiled slightly.
"You had better stay here. There is no other lodging."
I began to thank him, but he cut me short.
"It is Hobson's choice," said he, "and my house is not overcrowded at present. Have you lunched?"
"I am afraid I haven't."
"Come and join us. My daughter and I had just sat down."
He moved towards the door.
"I have no luggage," I said.
"I can lend you what you want."
I thanked him again, and said brazenly,
"May I ask for the loan of a coat. I am anxious not to exhibit my uniform coat in the island if I can help it."
I thought he looked a trifle surprised (it must be remembered that all this time I was in a buttoned-up oilskin), but he merely nodded again and led me upstairs to a pleasant bed-room with a low ceiling and some heavy old-fashioned mahogany furniture. There he left me and in a moment returned with a brush and comb and a tweed coat.
I had noticed that in one of the drawers there was a key, and as I took the coat I said,
"I hope you won't think me unduly cautious if I lock my uniform coat up in one of these drawers. There are certain papers in the pockets which I am bound to be careful of."
Again I fancied I caught a brief look of surprise, but it must have been very brief, for his face was as inscrutable as ever as he answered,
"Do exactly as you like."
A maid came with a jug of hot water and then I was alone.
"I wonder if the man believes me?" I said to himself. "Things are going a little too dashed smoothly!"
However, there was nothing for it now but playing the game out. I first took the precaution of suddenly and quietly opening the door. There was nobody at the key hole, so I took off my oilskin and put on the tweed coat, and then locked up the top drawer and put the key in my pocket. Hardly necessary to say that drawer remained as empty as the others.
"I call that either a very neat dodge, or a devilish silly one," I said to myself. "And which it is depends entirely on the results."
As I brushed my hair I thanked my stars I was fair, for a shave was now long overdue.
"What a pirate I'd look if I were a brunette!" I thought, and as it was, the recollection of dainty Miss Rendall made me determined to borrow a razor forthwith.
I foresaw that lunch would be a function demanding considerable tact. Seeing that I had decided, rightly or wrongly (and the Lord knew which!), not to trust these people, they had to be kept in a nice equilibrium betwixt doubt and confidence. To persuade them too thoroughly that they were entertaining a genuine British naval officer would be fatal if they were treasonably inclined, and a serious mistake if they were not, for then they might reassure the other islanders and my gang would go to earth, not to be dug up again in a hurry. On the other hand, to have them too suspicious would be all right if they were treasonable, but would probably end my adventure if they were honest.
The line I selected was a blend of mystery regarding my business, breezy chat on non-committal topics, and an occasional oddity of conduct, such as might have been caused by a guilty conscience or a harmless strain of eccentricity (and I left them to make their choice).
Here are a few choice excerpts from our conversation, which I happen to remember more or less verbatim.
Myself (chattily):"Delightful air you have in your island! Like champagne—or perhaps in these parts I ought to say like whisky and soda."
Mr. Rendall (somewhat drily): "We do happen to be acquainted with champagne."
Miss Rendall (smiling pleasantly as she ate): "We probably don't look as though we were, father. Mr. Merton's metaphor was safer."
Myself (feeling rather an ass, but outwardly gay):"I meant no reflection on your cellar, Miss Rendall. I was merely aiming at local colour."
At this point I fell abruptly silent, the laugh, as it were, frozen on my lips. I gazed at my plate and then glanced furtively at my host (I was giving them their choice). The next fragment of conversation which I remember ran somewhat thus:—
Myself (leading up deliberately to the test question):"There's one thing I envy the natives of this happy island. What a wonderful show of wild flowers they have! Do they make good grazing?"
Mr. Rendall (again drily): "If one happens to have ruminant tastes, I believe they are edible."
Miss Rendall (brightly, but evidently unkindly):"Mr. Merton was probably thinking chiefly of the ruminant natives."
Myself (keeping sternly to the point):"I was thinking chiefly of sheep."(With a direct and steady look at the laird.)"Are there many sheep on this island?"
Mr. Rendall (quite calmly):"A good many. Are you anxious for statistics?"
Myself (concealing my disappointment under a brave smile):"Oh no. Please don't mistake me for an intelligent enquirer."
I turned the brave smile on to Miss Rendall. She smiled back very slightly. In her face I seemed to read a trace of scepticism; as if she did not quite agree with my modest estimate of myself, but at the same time thought none the better of me. I would have given a good deal to know exactly what was in her mind. Did she suspect something? And if so, what?
I had one more shot. It was an inspiration which came to me at the end of lunch when my host offered me a cigar.
"Matches?" he observed, pushing a box towards me.
Again I looked at him hard and asked,
"Have you such a thing as awaxmatch?"
His eyebrows rose slightly.
"If you prefer to light a cigar with a wax match I daresay I can find one."
"If Mr. Merton doesn't mind waiting for half an hour perhaps I might discover a box in the store room," said Miss Rendall, and she added demurely, "beside the champagne."
My only consolation was that I was making an idiot of myself in a good cause.
I said good-night early that evening and did a heap of thinking in my bed-room. Nothing that seems to me now to be worth recording had been said or done since luncheon. I went for a solitary walk in the afternoon, as much to carry out the part of one with some business in the isle as for any other reason. It is true I actually did do some business in the way of accosting a few inhabitants and trying tactfully to convey a suspicious impression. None of them, however, had seemed in the least likely to belong to the gang I was after, and the sheep and wax match conundrums had left them cold. I was the less concerned at this since I had realised that the day was Saturday. To-morrow in church I meant to take stock of the islanders—and give them a chance of taking stock of me.
That night my thoughts ran chiefly on my host and hostess. I had learnt a few more facts about them and these I now put together to see what picture they suggested. In the first place, the Rendalls were an ancient family in these parts and had owned their property for some centuries. As all my prejudices ran in favour of old families, old port, and old furniture, this was so far reassuring.
On the other hand, Mr. Rendall had apparently lived much abroad but he dropped no hint as to whether he had sojourned in foreign parts for reasons of pleasure, health, or business. In fact he was close as a clam on the subject, and, indeed, on every other subject. Add to this that I had heard he was hard up, that he had no wife to look after him, and that he evidently took a caustic rather than an enthusiastic view of life, and in my present state of mind there seemed aprima faciecase for suspicion. Anyhow he was a man to be watched.
As to his daughter, I had learned that her name was Jean, that she had been to school at a somewhat select seminary which I chanced to have heard of, and that she had finished her education a couple of years ago in Switzerland.
"Nothing very suspicious in all that," I thought. "Still, what is this surprising apparition doing in this out of the way island? 'Looking after my father,' she'd say. But why look after him here instead of some more amusing place. Perhaps because they are hard up. On the other hand, perhaps not."
Then I thought over the pair simply as one thought of any new acquaintances before war was dreamt of, and I am bound to say they came out of the ordeal very creditably. He was well born, well bred, and very far from a fool. She was—well, I don't mind confessing that that night I considered her charming, in spite of the pretty obvious fact that she was not at all charmed with me. Or if she was, she concealed her feelings admirably. She had a good enough excuse, either way; whether she were honest and thought me a traitor, or whether she were treacherous and thought me honest. Besides, I had not yet shaved.
So I forgave Miss Jean her prejudice and reflected on her attractions. I changed my mind about them later, as will appear, but that first evening she seemed to me a most piquant and dainty young lady. Slim, trim, and demure, with eyes like stars (I borrow the metaphor unblushingly), and a pleasant spice of mischief in her tongue, and a touch of the devil very carefully and properly hidden away; that was my first impression of Miss Jean Rendall.
And then I turned in, and slept that night without a dream.
Sunday was another gorgeous day. The breeze had almost quite died away, the sea glimmered through a heat haze, and the colours of the wild flowers were brighter than any palette. I came down shaved, but found Miss Rendall still cool, and her father as inaccessible as ever.
"Anyhow," I consoled myself by reflecting, "I have eliminated my bristles as a cause for my unpopularity. They have something else on their minds!"
The laird lent me a felt hat and as the hour of noon drew nigh we set off for the parish kirk. There was another church in the island (as in every self-respecting Scottish parish, I believe), but by the greatest good luck the rival minister was away and the congregations were assembled together. I gathered afterwards that this happy result was partly due to the hope of seeing the laird's mysterious guest, and that several very prickly theological scruples were swallowed by divers of the other congregation. At all events the church was crowded and I had the chance I wanted.
As we approached the kirk I thought I had never seen a plainer, more primitive little building even in a Scottish kirkyard; no spire, no ornament, nothing but grey roughcast walls (what they call in Scotland "harled") and a roof of small yellowish flagstones, set in a bed of mingled nettles and tombstones. Amid the tombstones stood the congregation, all in black and staring steadfastly at the mysterious stranger, while over the door a plaintive little bell creaked and clanged.
We entered the little church and I shall never forget my surprise. It was the year 1914 without; it became the year 1514 (or perhaps some centuries earlier still) within. On one side two minute windows pierced a wall quite four feet thick. The other wall was broken only by a great empty niche whence an image once adored had vanished. It is true there were now pews, but they were not of yesterday—square boxes where people sat and faced in four directions, and the odour of damp bibles smelt prehistoric.
The bell ceased clanging, the people trooped in and filled the boxes, and presently there uprose in the pulpit a grim venerable man in black. By this time my better feelings were under control and I studied this figure critically. He represented one of those four "civilised" and suspect houses. One was untenanted, two I had now visited, and the fourth I was now almost ready to discharge with a cleared character. Outwardly at least this sedate divine suggested nothing but the austerer virtues.
For two hours the minister prayed, the minister read and the minister preached to us; at intervals we were allowed to sing, and abused the privilege shockingly; and all the time I studied that congregation. I recognised the Scollay family, Peter elder, Peter younger, Mrs. Scollay, the two rosy daughters, and even poor Jock. The three or four people I had spoken to in the afternoon were all there too. In fact I saw every one I had consciously met before in that island, with three exceptions. The doctor and O'Brien were not in church, and narrowly though I looked, I saw no sign of the ancient with tinted spectacles and a taste for wax matches.
I very soon was made aware that there was no fear of myself going unobserved. At one time or another I caught every eye in that congregation rivetted on me, and it only remained for me to give the proper impression to carry away with them.
As I was unable to see myself as others saw me, I cannot say precisely what effect I produced, but if a habit of looking suddenly and guiltily at the floor when I caught a hard staring eye, a conspicuous difficulty in following the order of the service and knowing what book to be picked up and whether to kneel, sit, or stand, and peculiarly unpleasant shake which I introduced into my top note—if all these manifestations failed to convey the impression that I was a very suspicious person indeed, well, all I can say is that they ought to have done so, and that that congregation must have been singularly deficient in the proper kind of imagination. Of course I could hardly expect a sympathetic signal to be actually made in church, but I did hope my performance would surely bear fruit before many hours had passed.
At last the service ended, the commons crowded out, and the laird and his daughter rose in their wake and greeted the minister on their way to the door. I noticed that they did not introduce me, and also that the Reverend Mr. Mackenzie regarded me—over Miss Rendall's shoulder—with a sternly suspicious glance. Evidently he had heard ill of me already, and hope burned higher. If the minister had heard dark rumours, surely the spies had! Or anyhow they would when that congregation had all reached their homes (if they were not among the congregation themselves).
We passed again through many eyes in the kirkyard, and then the Rev. Mr. Mackenzie and the laird walked together for a short way and I found myself alone with Miss Jean.
"I didn't see Dr. Rendall or Mr. O'Brien in church," I remarked.
"They very seldom come to church," said she.
"I gather that Mr. O'Brien is visiting the doctor," I observed.
"Yes," said she, in a tone that promised little further information.
"Has he been staying with him long?" I preserved.
"For some time."
"Old friends, I suppose."
She did not seem to hear me, and I gave it up—in the meanwhile; but to myself I said complacently,
"Some mystery here!"
Presently I remarked,
"There was another face I didn't see—the island patriarch."
She looked at me quickly.
"The patriarch—who do you mean?"
"An old gentleman with a white beard, tinted spectacles, and overcoat somewhat the worse for wear. He hailed me on the road yesterday and asked for a match. I imagine he must live somewhere near the doctor's house."
She looked very thoughtful for a moment and then said:
"There is no one in the island with tinted spectacles, and nobody in the least like that living anywhere near Dr. Rendall's."
I looked at her sharply.
"Are you quite sure?"
She seemed to think again for a moment and then said:
"Perfectly."
I had something to think about on my way home to lunch.
After lunch I set out by myself with pretty high hopes. It seemed to me inconceivable that men (or even one man for the sake of argument, though I felt sure there must be more), who were lurking here on the business this gang were engaged upon, would actually take no steps one way or the other to deal with a stranger who knew of their existence, and who to all seeming was one of their own kidney. I flattered myself by this time that every report they could have heard and every observation they might have made must incline them to the view that it was their duty to get in touch with me again. And now I proposed to take a solitary ramble along the very shore where I had stumbled upon my oil-skinned friend, and give them a chance of getting in touch.
It was an afternoon of sunshine and gleaming seas. At first the air was redolent of clover, and then—as I drew near the shore—of seaware. On this day of rest there was hardly any one to be seen about, so that a quiet meeting by the beach could be simply arranged. Only a meeting implies two, and though I walked right along the coast till I got within a stone's throw of the Scollays' farm I remained as solitary as when I started.
I turned back and slowly retraced my steps for a mile or so, my hopes fading and my perplexity increasing.
"What ought I to have done that I haven't done?" I asked myself. "And what have I done that I oughtn't to?"
I paused and sat down on the crisp sea turf with a rough stone wall to landward, and below me the shelving rocks and the glassy ocean, and it was then the idea struck me that I might do something to attract attention to my presence. A thoughtful aunt had presented me with a revolver when I got my commission, and as anything to do with hitting things, from cricket balls to pheasants, has always amused me, I used to carry it in my hip pocket regardless of chaff (one happily inspired wag dubbed me "jolly Roger"). I took it out now, descended to the beach, set up a stone as a mark, and proceeded to combine business with pleasure by doing a little fancy shooting. The thing made just enough noise to attract anybody fairly near at hand without scandalising the inhabitants, and as I chanced to be in good form I quite enjoyed myself.
I had just brought off a pretty sequence of snap shots and was thinking regretfully that in one of the happy lands which still encouraged the duel I should be a much more respected member of society, when I suddenly realised that I had a spectator of my prowess. He was standing on the turf above me, a little indistinct owing to the wall at his back, and for an instant my heart leapt and I thought I had met the friend I was seeking at last. And then I saw that it was only poor Jock.
I waved to him and he came scrambling down to the beach, his mouth wide open as usual and wreathed in smiles. As he approached a wild thought struck me. He was bearded, thickset, and of medium height. Wrap him in an oilskin, and there you were! I mention all my inspirations to show that I really did cover the ground pretty thoroughly in that blessed island. It is true that the conduct of my oil-skinned acquaintance was scarcely that of a congenital idiot; still, I was resolved to leave no stone unturned.
"Shoots, shoots!" he babbled in his curious thick voice. "Jock heard shoots!"
I looked at him fixedly and in a serious voice replied in a German accent you could have cut with a knife,
"I vant to know zomezing about sheeps, Herr Jock, not about shoots. How many sheeps are zere in zis island, eh?"
Did I see a gleam of intelligence for an instant in Jock's eye? I cannot honestly say. I only know that he looked not unnaturally surprised, and then thickly answered what sounded like "A hundred and six." Anyhow it was nothing that seemed to illuminate the subject very brightly.
"And how many wax matches?" I enquired.
Jock hooted with laughter. He sounded so cheerful, that I perforce laughed too, and then I gazed at him sombrely.
"Jock," I said, "you are a fraud and a disappointment."
He laughed again, and then all at once a much more sensible idea struck me. He was not a very promising ally, but he might prove better than none at all.
"Jock," said I, "I am a stranger."
He nodded and seemed to understand.
"Have you seen any other strangers in this island of yours?" I asked.
He seemed a little confused.
"No, no," he began, and then altered it into "Yes, yes."
Which did he mean, or did he mean anything at all.
"A man in an oilskin coat, with a moustache on his lip—here," I went on, touching my own lip. "Who goes out at night and walks along the shore; have you seen any one like that?"
Again he seemed to look intelligent, but he only shook his head vaguely.
"Well," I said, "if you do see any one like that let me know, and you will see some more shoots. Also I shall give you this."
I held up a new half crown and he laughed so joyfully that I began to have a faint hope he might prove of some use after all.
And yet when I had left him and resumed my walk back to the Rendalls' house, my spirits were not very high. As an ally Jock did not impress me with a feeling of great confidence, while his failure to recognise my description of the oil-skinned man depressed me unreasonably. I told myself that the opinion of the parish idiot on the subject of strangers was of small value. Besides, quite likely the oilskinned man would not be a stranger to the people in the neighbourhood. They might know him familiarly as a prosperous farmer or a hardy fisherman—or as their own doctor or their doctor's guest, or—no, he could not be their laird for Mr. Rendall was too tall. In short my talk with Jock had proved nothing one way or the other.
And yet my whole failure to come upon any trace of the gang in spite of all my ingenuity did set me thinking. Could it possibly be that my entire adventure had been an hallucination? I confessed frankly to myself that I have a pretty lively imagination, and I recalled vividly how I had almost collapsed on my way to the Scollays under the strain of an intense reaction, how my brain had whirled, and how I peopled the farm kitchen with full thrice the number of persons actually assembled. I had been conscious of all that, but supposing my brain had actually begun to whirl half an hour sooner, before I had become conscious of it? Might I not have imagined my whole mysterious adventure?
It was a nasty thought, for in that case what a superfluous fool I had made of myself since! But I faced it manfully, and sternly asked myself what the opinion of the average hard-headed, soberly reasoning man would be, if he were given the facts and requested to pronounce his verdict on them. What would be my own verdict if I were told such a yarn? Would I swallow it without demur?
"Be hanged if I would!" I said candidly.
By the time I got back to the big house, I had very nearly ceased to believe in the tale myself.
That evening we were all three sitting in the library (the same old-world room into which I had first been shown), when a servant entered and gave a message to Mr. Rendall. He rose and went out, leaving his daughter and myself each apparently immersed in a book. She may genuinely have been, but I was making the covers of mine a screen for inward debate. Had I made a mere fool of myself and should I make a clean breast of everything to my hosts? Or should I wait a little longer before deciding? I went on thinking after the laird had left the room, and Miss Jean still kept her eyes immovably on her page. I frankly confess I have never cut less ice with any woman—especially one who decidedly attracted me.
In a few minutes her father returned and said to her:
"John Howiseon has cried off to-night. I must go myself."
She started up with a word of expostulation, but he merely smiled in his grim way, nodded at her (not at me, I noticed) and was gone. With a little sigh she sat down again and plunged into her book, but my curiosity had been roused and in a moment I enquired,
"Is your father going out for long?"
Her concern seemed to have broken down her reticence
"All night," she said. "I wish he wouldn't!"
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"The coast patrol," said she.
"The coast patrol!" I exclaimed. "What's that?"
She seemed to look at me for an instant a little doubtfully before she answered,
"The Admiralty have asked all the Justices of Peace to have the coast patrolled."
"By whom?"
"Anybody they can get. We have the whole island mapped out into beats and the different; farmers take it night about."
For the moment I only half believed her. Such an amateur way of keeping watch and ward in such a vital area seemed hardly credible, but I learned afterwards that in those early days of the war that was one of the things which actually happened. Another fact also made me doubtful. On the night I landed I had met no watchers.
"Who watches the shore up at the north end—near the Scollays' farm?" I asked.
"Oh, Dr. Rendall and Mr. O'Brien look after that beat," said she.
In a flash my belief in my own adventure had begun to return. Either that couple neglected their duty—or I had met one of the watchers!
"Do the doctor and Mr. O'Brien ever go out themselves—like your father to-night?" I asked.
"Mr. O'Brien goes out pretty often, I believe."
I thought for a moment longer and then I jumped up.
"This seems the very job for an able-bodied young man," I said with a laugh. "I'm going out to join the watchers!"
"You!" she exclaimed, springing up too.
I looked her straight in the eye.
"Why not me?" I enquired.
She said nothing for an instant, and then she remarked in quite a matter of fact voice,
"Very well; if you are going, I'll come with you."
I could not resist parodying her.
"You!" I exclaimed.
But I got no smile in response.
"I'll be ready in five minutes," she said as she left the room.
"Now what the devil does this mean?" I said to myself.
Five minutes of course meant quarter of an hour, and then we sallied forth into the night, she in a long tweed coat and I in my inevitable oilskin.
"Which way do you want to go?" she asked.
"Suppose we work our way towards the north end," I suggested.
She said nothing more and we made our way by a track to the shore and then turned toward the left. I had been filling my pipe and when we got to the last stone wall, I stopped, bent under its shelter and struck a match. My face was towards her and in the fraction of a second before the first match blew out I caught a glimpse of something just visible in the mouth of one of the big pockets of her tweed coat. It was the butt end of a pistol.
I struck three more matches before I got my pipe alight and I contrived to face her each time, but she had turned and kept her other side towards me. When we resumed our walk I noticed that she consistently kept two or three yards away from me.
"Just shooting distance!" I said to myself.
"By the way, what are we supposed to be looking for?" I enquired presently.
"Chiefly periscopes, I think," said she.
I stopped short and gazed over the inky sea.
"Do they light them up for us?" I asked.
She laughed despite herself.
"That is what I've been wondering myself," said she.
This was her only sympathetic relapse, and to tell the truth I made no further remarks worthy of being smiled at. That pistol kept me thinking. That she had come out to watch me, and if necessary shoot me, seemed a pretty obvious deduction, and much as I admired her nerve, it made humorous conversation a trifle difficult.
On we walked, on and on for what seemed an interminable distance. It was quite moonless and only a few stars twinkled here and there through a veil of light clouds that had drifted up with the sunset. The grass underfoot was black, the sea was nearly as dark, and the inland country invisible. Once I remarked:
"It's a curious thing that we haven't met any of our fellow watchers."
"The beats are very long," she said, "and I'm afraid all the watchers don't keep at their posts all the time."
"What; they take a nap now and then?"
She seemed as though she were going to agree, and then to change her mind.
"Oh, we shall meet some one very soon. I think father is taking this beat."
But we met no one, and as we pursued our lonely way I began to think that here was quite a possible reason for my not having come upon one of these coast patrols two nights ago. Still, it was only a possible reason; the other alternative remained.
And then, I know not how it was, but I began gradually to get a curious impression thatsomethingwas in the air,somethingwas going to happen. It is easy to say I only imagine now in the retrospect that I had this feeling. But I noted the sensation clearly and positively at the time. I strained my eyes, I looked this way and that, so strong did the feeling become. Once I thought for a moment I heard soft footsteps somewhere on the inland side and I stopped short then and listened, but when I stopped I heard nothing.
It can only have been a few minutes after this that the figure at my side (which had been so silent that I had almost forgotten it was a girl, and a pretty girl too) stopped suddenly, and I stood still beside her.
"Do you hear anything?" she asked, and there seemed to be a little catch in her breath.
I listened and shook my head. I could see that she was gazing intently down at the beach.
"Do you see anything?" I asked in a voice instinctively hushed.
"No," she answered in the same low tone, "but I thought I heard something."
Again I strained my ears, and this time I distinctly did hear something; it might have been a movement among the rocks below, or on the bank ahead of us. She said nothing more but she seemed to be peering down into the gloom that veiled the beach.
"I'll go down and see what it is," I said.
For an instant I thought she was going to demur, but she said nothing, and with a bold air I stepped off the turf and began to make my way down, first through loose boulders and then along a ledge below. I confess frankly that I felt a trifle less bold than I looked, especially when I discovered the hazardous nature of the going. I remember that the sky began to seem lighter by contrast, but that the rocks were sheer chaotic darkness.
I must have been feeling my way along for some minutes, with a growing sense of the futility of the performance, when I first heard the sharp tinkle of a loose stone on rock. I turned towards the sound and heard it again. Either three or four times I had heard it distinctly when I found myself close to the grass again, only at this place there was a steep little cliff, higher than my head, between it and me, instead of a slope of boulders, so that any one on the bank above would be looking straight down on to me. All this I can swear to.
And then when my shoulder was rubbing this low cliff face, I thought—indeed I am sure—I heard something move above, and certainly there was a sharp grating sound on the rock at my back; within an inch of me, it seemed. I looked round quickly just in time to catch a glimpse of something thin and curved and sinister passing upwards, against the night sky. I did not see it descend again, but the next moment came the sharp grating, close to my head this time, and once more the long curved menace passed up, faintly visible against the sky.
I did not wait for it to descend again. That somebody was striking at me from above and that I had better get out of the way seemed so evident that I spent no further time in watching the operation. I started from the cliff, my foot struck a patch of seaweed, and with a half smothered "Damn!" I did the next few yards sliding seawards on my side. A peculiarly hard ledge stopped my career and for a moment I lay there wondering what bones were broken. By the time I had found there were none, and scrambled to my feet, the sky line above the bank was clear. Whoever had struck at me was gone and there was not even the slightest sound, save the gurgling of the sea below. And then I gingerly picked my way back.
I drew near the turf bank at the top and now again I stopped. Low voices reached my ear distinctly and presently I spied two vague forms standing close together. Before I moved again I had transferred something from my hip pocket to my oilskin jacket and I kept my hand there too, closed upon it and ready. Then I advanced.
"Is that you, Mr. Merton?" said a voice I knew.
"It is, Mr. Rendall," I answered drily.
"Did you see anybody?"
"No," I answered truthfully.
"We thought we heard a cry," said Miss Jean.
"I may have startled a sea gull," I suggested; and then I asked with a sharpness in my voice I could not quite control, "Where did Mr. Rendall spring from?"
"I told you I thought we should meet him," she answered, with a cool note in her voice that countered mine.
"What a curious chance that we should all meet here!" I exclaimed.
"It is precisely what I expected," said she.
"Did you think then it was Mr. Rendall down among the rocks?" I enquired.
"No," she said, "and it wasn't."
"Oh," I replied in a tone which (if I achieved my intention) might have meant anything—or nothing.
Her father had been standing perfectly silent during this bout, a towering figure muffled in a heavy ulster and scarf, with the rim of his hat turned down over his face. Now he spoke in his dry caustic way,
"Have you had enough exercise, Mr. Merton?"
"Quite, thank you."
"Then we can all go back together."
He turned and his daughter took his arm. I walked behind them—it seemed on the whole safer, and I kept my hand in my pocket all the while.
I had seen no one, it is true; I had heard no sound that could be sworn to as made by a human being, the thing I saw so dimly might possibly not have been a lethal weapon (and if it was a weapon, what in Heaven's name could it be? I wondered); it might conceivably have been a large bird some distance off, just as by a reverse illusion men are said to have fired at bumble bees when grouse driving. Also, it was within the bounds of possibility that the tinkling stones might not have been thrown down by some one above in order to draw me under that face. Everything had been so vague that all these alternatives were conceivable. But my own mind was quite and finally determined now that my adventure with the stranger on the shore had been no figment of my fancy, and I felt sure moreover thattheyhad made up their minds about me and decided to act. How and why they had come to such a definite conclusion despite all my efforts to mislead them, beat me at first completely. And then I stopped short and almost shouted "Idiot!"
I had addressed Miss Rendall at her own door in a German accent. Then I had abruptly dropped it and through all my deliberate mystifications one fact had been clear—that I spoke in the accents of an ordinary more or less educated Englishman. The Rendalls clearly had the material for coming to a conclusion, and now in their company I had all but ended my days on earth.
Yet somehow or other now that I saw all this so clearly, I found myself singularly reluctant to accept the logical conclusion that this gentleman of good lineage and standing and this attractive high-spirited girl were actually traitors of the basest sort, and murderous traitors too.
"Hang it, I may be wrong after all!" I said to myself. "I know I'm young: I am told I'm rash; I have made a fool of myself periodically as long as I've known myself, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt a little longer."
At the door Mr. Rendall left us to resume his conscientious patrol. I said a brief and cool good-night to Jean, went up to my room and tumbled straight into bed.
"In the morning I'll think things over," I decided.
Being an optimist has compensations. Indeed, it would need to have, for no virtue has ever landed any one in more damnable scrapes than optimism has landed me. But before the crash comes it does help to keep one happy.
Next morning, after that nasty night, I was singing in my bath and full of wild hopes; the fact being that a new and consoling way of looking at things had suggested itself in the very act of shaving.
"They are afraid of me!" I said to myself.
After a night's sleep the adventure by the shore had grown perhaps a little blurred in some of its details. I wished I could see that curved thing rising against the night sky a trifle more distinctly in my mind's eye; so that I could take my oath in court it was a weapon. Still, I remained perfectly assured I had been attacked, and the sustaining conclusions I now drew were, firstly, that "they" (whoever they were; and I tried to keep an open mind on that point) were so afraid of me that they were ready to stick at nothing to lay me out; secondly, that they were afraid to tackle me by day but had to choose a dark night and a lonely place; and thirdly, that with such a splendid chance it must have been nerves that made them bungle it.
"People in that state of mind will do something or other to give themselves away," I thought hopefully.
In this confident state of mind I came down for breakfast. My host, I found, was staying in bed after his night's vigil, and my hostess was daintier and more inaccessible than ever. After breakfast I reflected for a little over a pipe and then I asked her for a bit of lunch to put in my pocket and told her I was going for a long walk. She got the lunch and gave it to me without wasting a superfluous word, and off I set.
It was a breezy morning with a lot of thin cloud in the sky and a ruffled sea; cool and stimulating; the very day for a walk. I followed the exact route we took the night before, trying to identify such landmarks as rises and falls in the ground and sharp curves in the shore and farms close to the coast, but I found it was practically impossible; every feature seemed so utterly altered in daylight. My object was to find the spot where I had been attacked, and at last I had to be content with knowing that it must have been one of three or four places where the feature of a low cliff immediately under the turf was to be seen.
At one such place there was a long stretch of wall following the shore line, which could have given shelter for any one to stalk me practically from the start. At another I noticed a farm close by, and from this an assailant could easily have slipped down to the beach and run back again. At a third the configuration of the rocks was such that it would have been simple for him to have waited below the bank till he heard us coming, made a noise to bring me down, and then gone up above without exposing himself against the sky. In fact one could draw no definite conclusions at all.
Besides, there was the very distasteful alternative (and the more plausible it seemed, the more distasteful it grew) that there might well have been two people in it; one—who might have followed me, the stone thrower; and the other—who might, for instance, have been patrolling the shore from the opposite direction, the attacker.
Suspicious as I had felt at the moment, I shrank from this alternative, and in justification I asked myself,
"Why didn't she use her pistol, and be done with it?"
But, on the other hand, it was a most extraordinary coincidence that her father should have passed that spot certainly within three or four minutes previously, and that he should have seen no sign of my enemy. So far as I could remember the length of time I had spent groping among the rocks, it was just possible for Mr. Rendall to pass by and for the other man then to begin his work of decoying me, but certainly it was an unpleasant coincidence.
And finally there was a last alternative: that I might have been mistaken in thinking I was actually assailed and instead of that—But what other conceivable explanation could there be? I tried hard but could think of none.
With the flame of optimism burning now somewhat low, I kept on following the shore till I was well past the scenes of both my night adventures and had come to the little sandy bay with the huddle of low grey farm buildings just clear of the tide. I found Peter senior painting his boat on the shore and hailed him cheerfully with the same old guttural accent.
"Painting your boat, I see," said I.
He gave me a long look and one word.
"Ay," said he, and went on painting.
It struck me at once that he was even more wary and more reticent than before, but I was determined to extract some information.
"I have been guarding you against the Germans! Last night I patrolled your coast!" I informed him with great enthusiasm.
He looked at me rather curiously, I thought.
"Did ye see anything?" he enquired.
"I thought I did, but ach! how can one be sure in the dark?"
"It's no easy," he agreed.
"Then you have tried too, my friend?"
"Ay," he admitted, splashing on the paint.
"Were any of your family patrolling last night?"
"No," said he curtly.
"Who was guarding this part here?" I asked.
"I dinna ken."
I wondered, but I saw that there was not much more to be learned here. He had denied that any of his household were out, for what that was worth, and at that I bade him good morning and turned back.
I fell to walking more and more slowly and at last I stopped and decided to accompany my thoughts with a little lunch. The boundary wall at this point ran close to the edge of the rocks and was rather higher than usual. I thought for a moment of sitting down and lunching under its lee, and then I noticed that it was very loosely built of large beach boulders and that the off shore breeze was whistling through it like a sieve; so I decided to descend to the sheltered beach and lunch there. That decision saved my life.
I clambered down, chose a rock to sit behind, and was just putting my hand in my pocket for my packet of sandwiches, when "Crack!"—something whistled close to my head and smacked against a ledge behind me. "Crack!" again, and the smack this time resounded from the rock beside me. At the third "Crack!" I was flat on my face behind that rock and my hand was in another pocket. It brought out something more to the point than sandwiches.
I had a pretty good idea by this time where the shots were coming from and I risked a quick rise of my head to make quite sure. I just had time to see a flash through one of the holes in the wall and down went my head again as a bullet smacked once more upon the ledge behind. Yet another shot followed and seemed to miss everything, for I heard no sound of lead on stone, and then up went my head and hand together and I was covering that bit of wall with my own revolver. I saw that my enemy was no very dead shot and I meant to risk his fire and snap at the flash through the wall. I knew I could get quite near enough his peep hole to startle him, and after I had sprinkled the near neighbourhood of that aperture for five or six seconds I thought it probably odds against his keeping his head sufficiently to do much aiming. To be quite candid I must confess that it was a soothing sensation to feel I was the better man with a gun, and that I should have been in a proper fright if it had been the other way about. One hears a good deal of discussion on the quality of courage nowadays, and there is my own small contribution.
The seconds passed, my finger on the trigger and my eyes glued to the largest crevice I could spy in that wall, but there was never another flash or crack. And then it suddenly struck me that the man might be moving down the wall to get a shot at me from another angle. As usual I acted on impulse, and this time I think correctly. Scarcely had the thought struck me than I was up and rushing forward to the shelter of the grass bank where the rocks began. There, quite safe but rather cramped, I crept along parallel to the wall for about a hundred yards. And then I jumped up, charged the wall, and brought half of it down as I hurled myself over. As my feet touched the ground I looked in both directions, very nearly simultaneously, and saw—nothing.
Whether in that first instant I was more disappointed or relieved, I should be afraid to say, but as soon as I had had a few seconds to think, my one feeling was disgust that the fellow had given me the slip. I took to my heels and ran along that wall first in one direction and then in the other, but there was not a sign of a living creature. And the sickening thing was that by this time he might have done one of several things—headed away from the shore at top speed as soon as he ceased firing, in which case he would be far enough by now, or lain down in one of the several fields of corn near by, or crossed the wall further along and hidden among the rocks; and it was quite impossible to guess which. I pondered over the problem for a few moments and then decided that as it was perfectly hopeless to search the corn or the beach I would risk it and hasten inland on the off chance of getting a clue, so I chose a grass field and set off across it at a trot.
The ground rose for about fifty yards and then fell sharply, and as I topped this rise I came right on to a familiar figure. It was my friend Jock and he seemed unusually excited; almost, in fact, intelligent.
"Stranger!" he gabbled, pointing in the direction I was going. "Jock seen stranger!"
I followed his dirty finger and a couple of hundred yards or so ahead I spied a figure strolling along a by road, rather ostentatiously strolling, it seemed to me.
"Thank you, Jock," said I, "you're a good man! Here's your half crown!"
I dropped to a walk now and by the time the stranger and I met I think I looked about as cool as he did. It was Mr. O'Brien, as I had guessed at the first glance.
"Been for a walk?" he enquired.
"Having a stroll along the shore," said I.
He started a little and looked at me hard.
"Hullo!" said he, "I could have sworn you talked like a foreigner the last and first time I had the honour of meeting you. Were we both sober, do you think?"
I in turn looked at the man keenly. If his surprise was not genuine, it was as good a bit of acting as I ever saw, on or off the stage, and it was exactly the most disarming thing he could possibly say. Indeed it turned the tables on me completely and it was I who was now left in the position of having something awkward to explain away.
"It must have been the weather," I said lightly, "I'm never drunk before lunch;"
"And be damned if I get the chance at any time of day! You've heard of my sad complaint, eh?"
"No," said I, "I'm afraid I haven't. Nothing infectious?"
He gave one of his unpleasant hoots of laughter.
"Lord, you think I'm a respectable member of society then? Good for you, keep on thinking it—but you'll have to keep away from my friends!"
"It takes me all my time to keep clear of my own," said I.
His narrow eyes seemed to approve of me.
"You're not Irish?" he enquired.
"No; I've enough to answer for without that."
"You ought to be," said he. "You've got some wit. Damn the English, and double-damn the Scotch! Well we're evidently both going in the other direction, so good-bye to you!"
What was I to make of this? What was to be thought of the whole morning's adventure? Only one thing was perfectly clear to me: that I had a very dangerous, very determined, and very artful enemy in this island—or, almost certainly, several enemies, and that instead of the hunter I had become the hunted. They might fear me but they certainly did not fear to attack me whether by day or night. Had I sat down behind that trellis-like wall as I intended, I shivered a little to think of my fate. I should have been shot at twelve inches range, and that would have been the end of my spy hunt. I began to realise that it was much longer odds on my being dead within the next forty-eight hours than on my getting on the traces of that oilskinned man.
And then as I was walking back thinking these none too cheery thoughts, something put the parachute into my head. I had not thought of it before since the first night when I hid it. It took me a little time to get my bearings, but I found my way to the clover field at last and then made for the low wall with the bed of rank grass and docken leaves beneath it. I hunted up that wall and down that wall, but never a sign of the parachute was there.
"That is how they've bowled me out!" I said to myself. "They have heard by this time of the missing balloon; then they found the parachute, saw that the dates coincided, and spotted me!"
When I got back I felt very little inclined for society. I passed through the hall as quietly as I could, went straight up to my room, and heaved a sigh of relief when the door was safely shut behind me. Perhaps my adventures had been following a little too quickly on the heels of one another; anyhow it was quiet which I craved at that moment. It was a reposeful room, scented with honeysuckle, and for a few minutes I enjoyed an unwonted sensation of peace; and then my eyes chanced to fall on the chest of drawers. I stared for a moment and then bent over the lock of the upper drawer, that drawer which concealed the mythical uniform coat with the important mythical papers in the pocket.
There could not be a shadow of doubt as to what had happened. The lock had been taken off and put in again since I last saw it. And now of course my hosts knew as well as I did that no uniform coat had ever lain there, and consequently that their guest had never worn one.
I had meant to slack, but this situation obviously required some thinking over, so I lit a pipe, threw myself down on the bed, and began.
"Bowled out again!" I thought. "At the rate the wickets are going down, the innings must be dashed near over. They've found out my German accent was a fake, they've discovered the parachute and know I neither landed from a British cruiser nor a German submarine, and now they know that I lied about that coat.
"And what is my own score? By Gad, I don't honestly think I've made a single run! I have no idea whether these discoveries have been made by people in league with one another, who pool their knowledge, or whether my enemies only know part of all this, and if so which part. However, that matters less since they know enough to shoot at sight.
"Furthermore, I don't know which of them are my enemies, or how many there are, or in fact any dashed thing about them. Therefore—"
At that point I fell fast asleep. My late night, the long morning in that stirring air, and the excitement of two missed-by-a-hair's-breath murders, had trundled me out again. The last wicket was down and the innings over as I slept. The one bit of luck I did have was not setting the bed on fire with my pipe.
It was about three o'clock when I went up to my room. It was 6-10 when I was awakened by a sharp click. I opened my eyes stupidly and looked all round the room. There was absolutely nothing to be seen there. Then with a strong presentiment I jumped up and tried to open the door. It was as I suspected. I was locked in.
My hand went to my hip pocket and found my revolver all right. They had not ventured to try and get at that. Then I began to wonder why the key had not been turned sooner.
"Something has just happened to make them lock the door," I thought, and thereupon I went to the window and looked out.
My room faced right down the island, the north shore to the right—the scene of all my adventures, the sheltered south shore to the left. Craning my head to the left I could just spy a small vessel of the trawler or drifter type lying close inshore. She seemed to be flying a white flag—it might have been the white ensign at the distance. And then I got a glimpse of three or four figures walking towards the house, and one of these wore a white cap.
"Now we shan't be long!" I said to myself. "But what the dickens does it all mean?"
About ten long minutes passed before I heard voices and footsteps on the stairs. The lock clicked again, the door opened, and there stood a square-shouldered man in dark blue, with three gold rings on his sleeve and a familiarly firm mouth and pair of steady eyes. For an instant I could scarcely believe my own eyes, and then I knew that it actually was—of all people—my own cousin. Commander John P. N. Whiteclett, R.N., whom I had last heard of two years before the war when he was on the East Indies Station. And behind him I caught a glimpse of Jean Rendall. There may have been others, but all I was conscious of was her eager face, the eyes brighter than ever, and the lips a little parted in tense excitement.
My cousin Jack spoke first.
"Good Lord,youof all people, Roger!"
"My dear Jack!" I cried, and then I checked myself and shut that door.
"Well," said my cousin, with more candour than politeness, "I always thought you would end in gaol, Roger, and you've had a dashed near squeak this time, let me tell you. What new form of lunacy have you bust out into?" His eye fell on my revolver. "And what are you doing with that thing? If it's going to be suicide, let me fetch in a witness before you begin. I hate being found alone with a body."
"Is that your ship?" I demanded.
"She's one of 'em. I'm boss of a few dozen of these floating palaces at present. In fact we're a patrol and I've caught you red-handed on my own beat, and what I want to know is what the devil are you doing on it? Not trying to elope with that little bit of fluff, I hope, because I can assure you she doesn't love you in the least, Roger."
"You mean well, old thing," I said, "but you've guessed wrong as usual, Jack. Take me to your ship, for the Lord's sake, and I'll tell you the whole yarn there."
"These good people probably expect a bit of explanation," he suggested.
"The Rendalls? Not yet! Wait till you've heard everything yourself. Tell 'em then if you like—but I don't think you will."
He looked at me curiously.
"Well," said he, "let's be off then. Don't you even want to say good-bye?"
"I'll send them a Christmas card," I said.
"What, after all the trouble they've taken to round you up?"
"Do you mean to say they sent for you?"
"Rather! Urgent wire."
The prospect of facing my grim host and his disdainful daughter struck me forcibly as less pleasing than ever.
"Come on!" I said. "I'm going to bolt!"
We went downstairs and out of the front door like a couple of burglars.The Commander did not appear to relish this performance particularly, butI went first and he had to keep pace with me.
At the door we found the escort provided for me, and very surprised they looked as they followed us to see their Commander so unaccountably intimate with his captive; but fortunately there was no sign of the laird or his daughter. I looked round me and felt sure I saw a well known slip of a figure standing against the weather beaten wall of the old mansion, gazing after us—with what sensations? I wondered very much.
"When did they wire for you?" I asked.
"Somewhere round about mid-day."
"And what did they say?"
"'They'?" repeated my cousin. "Why drag in the fair Miss Rendall? Her father did the wiring. At least I presume so."
"Assuming he did, what did he say?"
"Suspicious stranger come to Ransay—gave incorrect account of himself—that was the gist of it. Oh, he used the word 'urgent' I remember."
"Incorrect account? That was probably after they had picked the lock of my drawer and had something to go upon."
Again my cousin looked at me curiously.
"This sounds interesting," he said, and quickened his stride.
We reached a little unfrequented pier and jumped into the drifter's boat. Sitting in the stern I looked over my shoulder with very mixed feeling at the receding shores of the island of Ransay. It had baffled me, made a fool of me, nearly murdered me; but after all it had saved my life when the odds were a million to one against me, and it had crowded into that life the four most exciting days and nights I had ever spent.