“My dear fellow,” he laughed, “for goodness sake don’t be so apologetic. I can quite see that you find it difficult to believe. But I am prepared to swear to it all the same. For one thing, the symptoms were unmistakable; for another, it seems impossible that we should both faint at exactly the same time and place for no reason at all.”
“You didn’t faint too, surely?” I cried.
“No,” he admitted,“but we might very easily have been suffocated together—smothered as surely as the princes in the Tower. When I saw you were in difficulties I shouted to you. Obviously you didn’t hear me. I naturally didn’t wait to see what would happen to you; I cleared down the cliff, and sprinted to you as fast as I could. When I came to within about twenty yards of you I found a difficulty in breathing. I went on for a couple of paces, and realised that the air was almost as heavy as water. So I rushed back, undid my collar, took a deep breath; and bolted in to you, picked you up, and carted you here.Voilà!But I very nearly joined you on the ground, and then we would never have regained consciousness, either of us. I applied the simplest form of artificial respiration to you, dowsed your head, and now you’re all right. On the whole, Ewart, we can consider ourselves very well out of this latest adventure.”
“What you’re really telling me,” I pointed out gratefully, “is that you saved my life at the risk of your own. I’m no good at making speeches, or anything of that sort, Garnesk, but I thank you, if you know what that means. And Myra will——”
“Not a word to her, Ewart,” my companion interrupted eagerly. “Whatever you do, don’t on any account worry that poor girl with this new complication. Anything on earth but that.”
“No,” I agreed; “you’re right there. Myra must be kept in the dark.”
“Yes,” he replied, with a look of relief.“It might have a serious effect on her chances of recovery if she had this additional worry. And I don’t think it would be advisable to tell the old man either. I think we had better keep it to ourselves absolutely. Tell no one, Ewart, except your friend when he comes.”
“Very well,” I answered, for I was very anxious to spare both Myra and her father from the knowledge of any further trouble. “I’ll tell Dennis when he comes, but otherwise it is our secret.”
“Good,” said Garnesk. “Now put your coat on, old chap, and we’ll stroll back to the house.”
I got up and buttoned my collar, retied my bow, and slipped into my jacket. I was rather uncomfortably damp, and I felt a bit shaky and queer, and decided that I could do with a complete rest from the mysteries of the green ray. But the subject remained uppermost in my mind, and my tired brain still strove to unravel the tangled threads of the puzzle.
“By the way,” I said, as we walked slowly up to the house, “you have not yet explained what there was in my remark about the sunlight that made you think of the yacht.”
“Well,” he replied,“you see I had an idea that perhaps they might come here when the gorge, through which the river flows, was flooded with light, so that they could see if any strange effects were produced. But that suffocation was not brought about by any electrical experiment, and I am beginning to be afraid that, after all, we may be up against some strange natural phenomena, some terrible combination of the forces of Nature, which has not yet been observed, or at any rate recorded.”
“Why afraid?” I asked, for although I had been glad to believe that we were faced with a problem which would prove to have a human solution, the revulsion had come, and I should have welcomed the knowledge that some weird, freakish application of natural power might be held accountable.
“Afraid?” queried Garnesk, with a note of surprise. “I am very often afraid of Nature. She is a devoted slave, but a cruel mistress. I don’t think that I should ever be very much scared by a human being, even in his most fiendish aspect, but Nature—I tell you, Ewart, there are things in Nature that make me shudder!”
“Yes,” I agreed heavily, “you’re right, of course. That’s how I have felt for the past twenty-four hours. It was a tremendous relief to me to feel that we were men looking for men. But the last few minutes I have had an idea that it would be comforting to explain it all out of a text-book of physics. Still, you’re right. It is better far to be men fighting men than to be puny molecules tossed in the maëlstrom of immutable power which created the world, and may one day destroy it.”
“I’m glad you agree,” he said simply.“You see you could not possibly live for a second in electrically produced atmosphere which was so thick that you couldn’t hear yourself speak. Death would be instantaneous. It couldn’t have been our unknown professor’s wireless experiments after all. Yet it seems impossible that a sudden new power should crop up suddenly at one spot like this. Imagine what would happen if this had occurred in a city, in a crowded street. Hundreds would have been stricken blind, then hundreds would have been suffocated. Vehicles would have run amok, and the result would have been an indescribable chaos of the maimed, mangled and distraught. A flash like this green ray (which blinded Miss McLeod and her dog, deluded the General, and nearly suffocated us) at the mouth of a harbour, say, the entrance to a great port—Liverpool, London, or Glasgow—would be responsible for untold loss of life. If this terrible phenomenon spread, Ewart, it would paralyse the industry of the world in twenty-four hours. If it spread still farther the face of the globe would become the playing-fields of Bedlam in a moment. Think of the result of this everywhere! Some suffocated, some blinded, and millions probably mad and sightless, stumbling over the bodies of the dead to cut each other’s throats in the frenzy of sudden imbecility.”
“Don’t, Garnesk,” I begged. “It won’t bear thinking about. We have enough troubles here to deal with without that!”
“Yes,” my companion admitted,“we need not add to them by any idle conjectures of still more hideous horrors to come. But it is an interesting, if terrible speculation. And it means one thing to us, Ewart, of the very greatest importance. We must solve the riddle somehow.”
“You mean,” I cried, as I realised the tremendous import of his words—“you mean that the sanity of the universe may rest with us! You mean that if we can solve this riddle we, or others, may be able to devise some means of prevention, or at least protection? You mean that we are in duty bound to keep at this night and day until we find out what it is?”
“That is just what I do mean,” he replied seriously. “It is a solemn duty; who knows, it may be a holy trust. Ewart, we agree to get to the bottom of this? We have agreed once, but are we still prepared to go on with this now that we know we may be crushed in the machinery that controls the solar system and lights the very sun?”
“I shall certainly go on,” I replied eagerly. “But we can hardly expect you to run risks on our behalf.”
“It may be in the interests of civilisation,” he answered,“and in that case it is our duty. Now look here, Ewart, this will have to be a secret. It is essential that we should not get ourselves laughed at because, for one thing, the scoffers may get into serious trouble if they start investigating our assertions in a spirit of levity. You and I must keep this to ourselves entirely. What about your friend?”
“I can trust him,” I replied simply.
“Then tell him everything,” Garnesk advised. “If you know you can rely upon him he may be of great assistance to us.”
“What about Hilderman?” I asked. “He knows a good deal already.”
“There is no need for him to know any more. He may be of some use to us. I had thought he might be of the greatest use, but he may be able to help us still. We should decrease, rather than augment, his usefulness by telling him these new complications.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, for instance, he might think we are mad, although he’s a very shrewd fellow.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “I think he’s pretty cute. Funny that Americans so often are. Anyway, he’s been cute enough to make sufficient to retire on at a fairly early age, and retire comfortably too.”
“H’m,” was my companion’s only comment.
After dinner that evening we discussed all sorts of subjects, mainly the war, of course, and went to bed early.
“Now, Ron,” exclaimed Myra, as we said good-night, “if Mr. Garnesk is really going to leave us on Monday, you mustn’t let him worry about things to-morrow. Do let him have one day’s holiday while he is with us, anyway.”
“I will,” I agreed.“We’ll have a real holiday to-morrow. Suppose we all go up Loch Hourn in the motor-boat in the afternoon?”
So it was arranged that we should have an afternoon on the sea and a morning’s fishing on the loch. Garnesk fell in with the idea readily.
“It will do you good,” he declared. “You won’t be feeling too frisky in the morning after your adventure this afternoon.”
As it turned out he was quite right, for I awoke in the morning with a slight headache and a tendency to ache all over. So we fished the loch in a very leisurely fashion for an hour or two, and after lunch the four of us went up to Kinlochbourn. We took a tea-basket with us, and very nearly succeeded in banishing the green ray altogether from our minds. I had taken my Kodak with me, and we ran in shore, and otherwise altered our course occasionally in order to enable me to record some choice peep of the magnificent scenery. When we got back to the lodge we were all feeling much the better for the outing. After dinner Myra, who had taken the greatest interest in the photographs, although, poor child, she could not see what I had taken, and would not be able to see the result either, was anxious to know how they had turned out.
“I should love to know if the snapshots are good,” she said,“particularly the one at Caolas Mor. Develop them in the morning, Ronnie, won’t you? If you don’t you’ll probably take them away, and forget all about them.”
Garnesk looked at me. He was always on thequi vivefor any opportunity to give Myra a little pleasure. He felt very strongly that she must be kept from worrying at all costs.
“Why not develop them now, Ewart?” he suggested.
“Certainly,” I said, “if everybody will excuse me.”
“Dad’s in the library,” Myra replied, “but everybody else will come with you if you ask us nicely. Besides, I shall have to tell you where everything is. There’s plenty of room for us all.”
“Right you are,” I agreed readily, and went out to get a small folding armchair from the verandah. We went up to the dark-room at the top of the house, and Myra sat in the corner, giving me instructions as to the position of the bottles, etc. I prepared the developer while Garnesk busied himself with the fixing acid.
“Now we’re ready,” I announced, as I made sure that the light-tight door was closed, and lowered the ruby glass over the orange on Myra’s imposing dark-room lamp; she believed in doing things comfortably; no messing about with an old-fashioned “hock-bottle” for her. I took the spool from my pocket and began to develop themen bloc.
“How are they coming along?” Myra asked, leaning forward interestedly.
“They’re beginning to show up,” I replied; “they look rather promising.”
“It’s rather warm in here,” said the girl presently; “do you think it would matter if I removed my shade, Mr. Garnesk?”
“Not if you put it on again before we put the light up,” the specialist answered. Myra took off the shade and the heavy bandage with a sigh of relief, and leaned her elbow on the table beside her.
“There’s a glass beaker just by your arm, dear,” I said; “just a minute and I’ll put it out of reach.”
“All right,” said Garnesk, moving forward, “I’ll move it; don’t you worry.”
But before he could reach the table there was a crash. The beaker went smashing to the floor. I turned with a laugh, which died on my lips. Myra was standing up with her hand to her head.
“What is it, darling?” I cried, dropping the length of film on the floor. Garnesk made a grab for the shade. Myra gave a short, shrill little laugh, which had a slightly ominous, hysterical note in it.
“Don’t be alarmed, dear,” she said quietly, in a curiously tense voice, “I can see!”
I must admit that I was so delighted to find that Myra had recovered her sight that I very nearly made what might have been a very serious mistake. I gave a loud shout of triumph and made a dive for the light, intending to switch it on. This might, of course, have had a very bad effect upon my darling’s eyes, but fortunately Garnesk darted across the room and knocked up my arm in the nick of time.
“Not yet, Ewart, not yet,” he warned me. “We must run no risks until we are quite sure.”
“But, Ronnie, I can see quite well,” Myra declared delightedly. “I see everything just as easily as I usually can by the light of the dark-room lamp.”
“Still, we won’t expose you to the glare of white light just at present, Miss McLeod,” said Garnesk solemnly. “We must be very careful. Tell me, how did your sight return, gradually or suddenly?”
“Suddenly, I think,” the girl replied. “I took off the shade and laid it down, and then when I looked up I could distinctly see the lamp.”
“Immediately the shade was removed?”
“No,” she answered,“not just immediately. You see, I was looking at the floor, which is so dark, of course, that you couldn’t see it in the ordinary way. Then as soon as I looked up I could see the lamp. For a moment I thought it was my imagination, but when I found I could see Ron stooping over the developing-dish I knew that I was all right again.”
“This is very extraordinary, you know,” said Garnesk. “Can you count the bottles on the middle shelf?”
“Oh, yes!” laughed Myra, “I can make them out distinctly. Of course, I know pretty well what they are, but in any case I could easily describe them to you if I’d never seen them before.”
“What have I got in my hand?” the specialist queried, holding his arm out.
“A pair of nail-clippers,” Myra declared emphatically, and Garnesk laughed.
“Well,” he said, “you can obviously see it pretty well; but, as a matter of fact, it’s a cigar-cutter.”
“Oh! well, you see,” the girl explained airily, “I always put necessity before luxury!”
So then the oculist made her sit down again and questioned and cross-questioned her at considerable length.
“I’m puzzled, but delighted,” he admitted finally. “It’s strange, but it is at the same time decidedly hopeful.”
“I suppose it means that she will always be able to see in a red light at any rate?” I suggested.
“Probably it does,” he agreed, “and, of course, her sight may be completely restored. There is also a middle course; she may be able to see perfectly after a course of treatment in red light. I will get her a pair of red glasses made at once. We can see how that goes. But I feel that it would be advisable to introduce her to daylight in gradual stages, in case of any risk.”
“Oh, if we could only find poor old Sholto!” Myra exclaimed eagerly. Garnesk turned to her with a look of frank admiration.
“You’re a lucky young dog, Ewart,” he whispered to me, “by Jove you are!”
So Myra graciously, but a little regretfully I think, placed herself in the hands of the young specialist and replaced her shade. Then we left the dark-room, allowing the films to develop out on the floor, and went downstairs. We took her out on to the verandah and removed the shade for a moment, but the chill air of the highland night made her eyes smart after their unaccustomed imprisonment, and we gave up the experiment for that night.
As Garnesk and I bathed together in the morning we were both brighter and more cheerful than we had been since his arrival.
“I shall catch the train from Mallaig,” he declared. “Can you take me in and meet your friend without having long to wait?”
“If you insist on going,” I replied,“I can get you there in time to meet him and you will have an hour or more to wait for your train.”
“Oh, so much the better! We can tell him everything and give him all the news in the interval.”
“Are you still determined to go?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “Imustgo. It will be necessary for me to make one or two inquiries and get a pair of glasses made for Miss McLeod.”
“I shall be very sorry to lose you, Garnesk,” I said earnestly. “Don’t you think you could write or wire for the glasses? You see, if we have come to the conclusion that this green ray is some chemical production of Nature unassisted there isn’t the same reason for you to leave us.”
“No, that’s true,” he agreed, “but we were both a bit scared yesterday, old chap, and the more I think of this dog business the less I like it. It was mere conceit on my part that made me say it was bound to be some natural phenomenon merely because I couldn’t understand how the effect could have been humanly produced.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “our best course would be to keep an open mind about the whole thing.”
“Yes,” he replied,“I’m with you entirely. And in that case my going away is not going to aggravate the effects of a natural phenomenon, while it may restrain the human agency by removing the necessity for further activity.”
“Well, that’s sound enough,” I acquiesced; “but I shall hear from you, I hope?”
“Of course, my dear fellow,” he laughed, “we’re in this thing together. You’ll hear from me as often as you want, and who knows what else besides. I have no intention of dropping this for a minute, Ewart. But I think I can do more if I am not on the spot. We’re agreed that my presence here may be a source of danger to you all.”
“Yes,” I said, “I think yours is the best plan. What do you propose to do?”
“Well, to begin with, I shall devote an hour or two to knocking our panic theory on the head.”
“You mean the natural phenomenon idea?”
“Precisely,” said he. “I don’t think that it will be able to exist very long in the light of physical knowledge—not that that is a very powerful light, but it should be strong enough for our purpose. As soon as I have convinced myself that our enemy is a mere human being I shall take such steps as I may think necessary at the time. Then, of course, I shall acquaint you with the steps that I have taken, and we shall work together and round up our man, and, figuratively speaking, make him swallow his hideous green ray.”
“What sort of steps do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, that all depends,” my friendanswered, “on what sort of man we have to deal with. But it will certainly include providing ourselves with the necessary means of self-defence, and may run to calling in the assistance of the authorities.”
“I’m not sure that the presence of the police in a quiet spot like this might not have a disastrous effect on our plans,” I pointed out.
“I shouldn’t worry about the police,” he laughed. “I should make for the naval chaps. I’m rather pally with them just now; I’m booked up to do some work of various descriptions for the period of the war, and I think if I can give them the promise of a little fun and excitement they would be willing to help.”
“Which indeed they could,” I agreed readily. “Any attempt our enemy might make to get away from us would probably mean a bolt for the open sea, and a few dozen dreadnoughts would be cheerful companionship.”
Garnesk laughed, and we strolled up to the house, putting the finishing touches to our toilet as we went. Shortly after breakfast we made ready for our trip to Mallaig. Myra was very anxious to come with us until I explained that we should have to wait there till we had met Dennis and seen the specialist off. She was naturally sensitive about appearing in public with the shade on, poor child, so she readily gave up the idea.
“I’m very sorry you’re going, Mr. Garnesk,” said Myra, as she shook hands.
“I shall see you again soon,” he replied. “I have by no means finished with your case, and as soon as you report the effect of the glasses I shall send you’ll see me come tripping in one afternoon, or else I shall ask you to come down to me.”
“It’s very good of you to take so much trouble about it,” said Myra gratefully.
“Not at all,” he responded lightly. “It is a pleasure, Miss McLeod, I assure you.”
The old general was still more effusive of his gratitude, and as he waved good-bye from the landing-stage his face was almost comically eloquent of regret.
“By the way,” said Garnesk as we passed Glasnabinnie, “don’t tell Hilderman much about what has happened. We feel we can trust him, but you never know a man’s propensity for talking until you know him very well.”
“Right,” I agreed. “I’ll take care of that. We can’t afford to get this talked about. It would be very painful for Myra and her father if it became the chatter of the country-side.”
“Besides,” Garnesk pointed out, “it will be much safer to be quiet about it. If we are dealing with men they will probably prove to be desperate men, and we don’t want to run any risks that we can avoid.”
“No,” said I, “this is going to be quite unpleasant enough without looking for trouble.”
So when we arrived in Mallaig and metHilderman on the fish-table I was careful to remember my companion’s advice.
“Ah, Mr. Ewart!” the American exclaimed in surprise, “How are you? And you, Professor? I hope your visit has proved entirely satisfactory. How is Miss McLeod?”
“Just the same, I am sorry to say,” Garnesk replied glibly. “There is no sign at all of her sight returning. I can make nothing of it whatever.”
“Dear, dear, Professor!” Hilderman exclaimed, with a shake of the head. “That is very bad, very bad indeed. Haven’t you even any idea as to how the poor young lady lost her sight?”
“None whatever,” said Garnesk, with a hopeless little shrug. “I can’t imagine anything, and I’m not above admitting that I know nothing. There is no use my pretending I can do anything for poor Miss McLeod when I feel convinced that I can’t.”
“So you’ve given it up altogether, Mr. Garnesk?” Hilderman asked, as we strolled to the station.
“What else can I do?” the oculist replied. “I can’t stop up here for ever, much as I should prefer to stay until I had done something for my patient.”
“You have my sympathy, Mr. Ewart,” said Hilderman in a friendly voice. “It is a terrible blow for you all. I fervently hope that something may yet be done for the poor young lady.”
“I hope so too,” I answered, with a heavy sigh, but the sigh was merely a convincing response to the lead Garnesk had given me, for, as a matter of fact, I was quite certain that we had found the basis of complete cure.
“Yes,” Hilderman muttered, as if thinking aloud, “it is a very terrible and strange affair altogether. Have you had any news about the dog?”
“None whatever,” I replied, this time with perfect truth.
“Surely you must suspect somebody, though,” the American urged. “It is a very sparsely populated neighbourhood, you know.”
“We can’t actually suspect anybody, nevertheless,” said I. “On the one hand, it may have been an ordinary, uninteresting thief who stole the dog with a view to selling him again. On the other hand——”
“Well,” said Hilderman with interest, as I paused, “on the other hand?”
“It may have been someone who had other reasons for stealing him,” I concluded.
“I don’t quite follow you.”
“Ewart means,” said Garnesk, cutting in eagerly, evidently fearing that I was about to make some indiscreet disclosure of our suspicions, though I had not the slightest intention of doing so,“Ewart means that it may have been someone who regarded the dog as a personal enemy. Miss McLeod informs us that there was a man in the hills, ostensibly a crofter, who disliked Sholto, quite unreasonably. He drove the dog away from his croft and was very rude to Miss McLeod about it. She suspected an illicit still, and thought the fellow was afraid Sholto might nose out his secret and give the show away.”
“Ah!” said Hilderman. “An illicit still, eh! Where was this still, or, rather, where was the croft?”
I remembered that Myra had told us it was somewhere up Suardalan way, above Tor Beag, and I was just about to explain, when I felt my friend’s boot knock sharply against my ankle. Taking this as a hint and not an accident, I promptly lied.
“It was miles away,” I announced readily, “away up on The Saddle. Miss McLeod wanders pretty far afield with Sholto at times.”
“Indeed,” said the American, “I should think that might be quite a likely explanation, and rather a suitable place for a still, too. I climbed The Saddle some months ago with an enthusiastic friend of mine. We went by water to Invershiel, and then drove up the Glen. I shouldn’t like to walk from Invermalluch and back; there are several mountains in between, and surely there is no road.”
Evidently our shrewd companion suspected that I had either made a mistake or deliberately told him an untruth, but I was quite ready for him. I had no time to consider the ethics of thematter. I was out to obey what I took to be my instructions, and obey them I did.
“Oh, there are quite a lot of ways of getting there,” I replied airily; “but perhaps the easiest would be to take the motor-boat to Corran and walk up the Arnisdale, or follow the road to Corran and then up the river. Miss McLeod has her own ways of getting about this country, though, and she may even know some way of avoiding the difficulties of the Sgriol and the other intervening mountains.”
Hilderman looked at me in considerable surprise for a moment.
“You seem to know the district pretty well yourself, Mr. Ewart,” he remarked.
“Well, I ought to,” I explained; “I was born in Glenmore.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” he murmured; “that accounts for it, then.” And at that moment we heard the train approaching, and we hurried into the station to meet our respective visitors.
“Fact or fancy?” asked Garnesk in an undertone as we strolled down the platform, Hilderman having hurried on ahead.
“Fancy,” I replied. “I took it you wanted me to avoid giving him the precise details.”
“Yes, I did,” he laughed. “But you certainly made them precise enough. It is better to be careful how you explain these things to strangers.”
“Why?” I asked.“If we suspected Hilderman I should be inclined to agree with you that we should feed him up with lies; and if you think it will help us at all to suspect him I’m on at once. But as we both feel that his disposition is friendly and that we have no cause to doubt him, what is your reason for putting him off the scent every time? I know you well enough by this time to feel sure that you haven’t been making these cryptic remarks for the sake of hearing yourself speak.”
“Here’s the train,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.”
I looked along the carriages for Dennis, but I had evidently missed him, for as I turned back along the platform I found him looking round for me, standing amid themêléeof tourists and fisherfolk, keepers and valets, sportsmen and dogs, which is typical of the West Highland terminus in early August, and which seemed little affected by the fact that a state of war existed between Great Britain and the only nation in the world which was prepared for hostilities.
“Well, old man,” I greeted him as we shook hands heartily. “You got my wire, of course. I hope you had a decent journey.”
“Rather, old chap, I should think I did!” he replied warmly.“Slept like a turnip through the beastly parts, and woke up for the bit from Dumbarton on. I also had the luck to remember what you said about the breakfast and took the precaution of wiring for it. Here I am, and as fit as a fiddle.”
“That’s great!” I exclaimed cheerily, for Dennis’s bright attitude had exactly the effect on me that it was intended to have—it made me feel about twenty years younger. “This is Mr. Garnesk, the specialist, who very kindly came from Glasgow to see Myra. Mr. Garnesk—Mr. Burnham.”
The two shook hands, and the oculist suggested lunch. We left the station to go up to the hotel, but we saw Hilderman and his newly arrived friend—the same man who had seen me taking Myra up to London—walking leisurely up the hill in front of us. Garnesk took my arm.
“Steady, my boy, steady,” he said quietly. “We don’t want to be overheard giving the lie to your dainty conversation of a few minutes ago. Isn’t there anywhere else we can lunch, because they are evidently on the same tack?”
“Yes,” I replied, turning back, “there’s the Marine just behind you. That’ll do us well. Then we can come out and talk freely where there’s no chance of our being overheard.”
So we lunched at the Marine Hotel, after which we strolled round the harbour, along the most appalling “road” in the history of civilisation, popularly and well named “the Kyber.” Safely out of earshot, I made a hurried mentalprécisof the events of the past few days, and gave Dennis the resultant summary as tersely as I could.
“I’m very glad you had Mr. Garnesk with you,” said Dennis at last, with a glance of frank admiration at the young specialist.
“Not so glad as I am,” I replied fervently. “What I should have done without him heaven only knows. I can’t even guess.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Garnesk, in modest protest. “I haven’t been able to do anything. Our one advance was a piece of pure luck—the discovery that Miss McLeod could see by the light of a red lamp. We have decided to keep that quite to ourselves, Mr. Burnham.”
“Of course,” agreed Dennis, so emphatically that I laughed.
“Why so decided, Den?” I asked, for I felt that I should like to climb to the topmost pinnacle of the highest peak in all the world and shout the good news to the four corners of the earth.
“I’m not a scientist, Ron,” Dennis replied. “That may account for the heresy of my profound disbelief in science. I wouldn’t cross the road to see a ‘miracle.’ The twentieth century is uncongenial to anything of that sort. Take it from me, old chap, there’s a man at the back of this—not a nice man, I admit, but an ordinary human being to all outward appearances—and when we catch a glimpse of his outward appearances we shall know what to do.”
“Yes,whenwe do,” I sighed.
“You mustn’t let Ewart get depressed about things, Mr. Burnham. He very naturally looks at this business from a different standpoint. With him it is a tragic, mysterious horror, which threatens the well-being, if not the existence, of a life that is dearer to him than his own.”
“I’ll look after him,” said Dennis, with a grim determination which made even Garnesk laugh.
“When you two precious people have finished nursing me,” I said, “I hope you’ll allow me to point out that that very reason gives me a prior claim to take any risks or run into any dangers that may crop up from now on. If there is any trouble brewing, particularly dangerous trouble, then it is my place to tackle it. I am deeply grateful to you fellows for all you have done and are doing and intend to do, but the nursing comes from the other side. I can’t let you run risks in a cause which is more mine in the nature of things than yours.”
“I fancy,” said Dennis, “that even your eloquent speeches will have very little effect when it comes to real trouble. If danger comes it’ll come suddenly, and we shall be best helping our common cause by looking after ourselves.”
“Hear, hear,” said Garnesk, and I could only mutter my thanks and my gratitude for the possession of two staunch friends.
“To get back to business,” I said presently, “why did you want me to bluff Hilderman like that?”
“Because,” said Garnesk slowly,“I’m not sure that Hilderman is the man to take into our confidence too completely. It’s not that I don’t trust the man, but he looks so alert and so cute, and has such a dreamy way of pretending he isn’t listening to you when you know jolly well that he is, that I have a feeling we ought to be careful with him.”
“Very much what Dennis said about him the first time he saw him. But if you don’t suspect him, and he is a very cute man, why not trust him and have the benefit of his intelligence?”
“How would you answer that question yourself, Ewart?” the specialist asked quietly.
“Oh,” I laughed, “I should point out that his cuteness may be the very reason that we don’t suspect him.”
“Precisely,” Garnesk agreed; “and that is partly my answer as well.”
“And the other part?” put in Dennis quietly.
“Well, it’s a difficult thing to say, and it’s all conjecture. But I have a feeling that Hilderman is not what he says he is. He has a knack of doing things, a way of going about here, that gives me the impression he is employing his intelligence, and a very fine intelligence it probably is, all the time. I don’t think he is retired at all. There’s a restless energy about the fellow that would turn into a sour discontent if his mind were not fully occupied with work which it is accustomed to, and probably enjoys doing.”
“Have you anything to suggest?” I asked.
“I have an idea,” he replied; “but I haven’t mentioned it because it doesn’t satisfy me at all. I have an idea that the man is some sort of detective hard at work all the time. But I can’t imagine what sort of detective would take a house up here and keep himself as busy as Hilderman appears to be over some case in the neighbourhood. I can’t imagine what sort of case it can be.”
“What about a secret German naval base in the Hebrides?” I suggested. “It’s not by any means impossible or even unlikely that the Germans have utilised the lonely lochs and creeks to some sinister purpose. Many of the lochs are entirely hidden by surrounding mountains, which come right down to the edge of a narrow opening, and make the place almost unnoticeable unless you happen to be looking for it.”
“There’s something in that, certainly,” Garnesk agreed; “but we must remember he’s been here since May. Surely our precious Government would have managed to find what they wanted, and clear it out by this time. Then again, did they suspect the base, or did they have a general idea that war was coming so far back as May?”
“As to the war,” Dennis put in, “we don’t really know when the authorities had their first suspicions.”
“No,” said I;“but I fancy it was not a very definite suspicion until after the Archduke was assassinated. But look here, Garnesk, just let us suppose Hilderman really is a Government detective in the guise of an American visitor. Wouldn’t he be just about the man we want, or do you think it would make too much stir to take him into our confidence?”
“Far too much,” Garnesk replied emphatically. “It’s not that he would talk; but if he has been here all this time his opponents have got wind of him long before this, and his arrival on the scene in connection with our case would give any suspicious character the tip to bolt. I should advise keeping in touch with Hilderman, learn as much as you can about him, and be ready to run to him for help if you come to the conclusion that he is the man to give it.”
We sat down among the heather at the foot of the Mallaig Vec road, and looked out over the harbour.
“Don’t turn your heads,” said Dennis quietly, “but glance down at the pier.”
“Yes,” said Garnesk in a moment, “he seems to be as interested in us as we are in him.”
Hilderman and his friend were standing on the end of the pier watching us through their field-glasses.
“I’ll send the glasses at once,” said Garnesk, as the train steamed out of the station. Dennis and I stood on the platform and watched him out of sight.
“He seems a good fellow,” said Dennis.
“Splendid!” I agreed readily. “He’s exceeding clever and wide-awake, and very charming. What we should have done without him heaven only knows. I fancy his visit saved the entire household from a nervous collapse.”
“We’ve no time for collapses, nervous or otherwise,” Dennis replied. “We shall want our wits about us, and we shall need all the vitality we can muster. But at the same time I don’t think there is any cause for nerves. You’re not the sort of man, Ron, to let your nerves get the better of you in an emergency, especially if we can prove that our enemy is a tangible quantity, and not a conglomeration of waves and vibrations.”
“Hilderman and his friend appear to be waiting for us,” I interrupted.
“You may as well introduce me,” said Dennis. “I’d like to meet the man. Who is his friend, do you know?”
“Haven’t the remotest idea,” I replied.“I have seen him once before, but that is all. I don’t know who he is.”
“Is he staying with Hilderman, or does he live in the neighbourhood?”
“That I couldn’t tell you either,” I said. “I’m sure he doesn’t live anywhere near Invermalluch.”
As we strolled out of the station Hilderman and his companion were standing chatting by the gate which leads on to the pier. As we approached, Hilderman turned to me with a smile.
“Ah, Mr. Ewart,” he exclaimed, “your friend has left you, then. I hope you won’t let his inability to help Miss McLeod depress you unduly. While there’s life there’s hope.”
“I shall not give up hope yet awhile, anyway,” I answered heartily.
“May I introduce my friend Mr. Fuller?” he asked presently, and I found myself shaking hands with the round-faced little man, who blinked at me pleasantly through his glasses. I returned the compliment by introducing Dennis.
“On holiday, Mr. Burnham?” asked the American. Dennis was so prompt with his reply that I was convinced he had been thinking it out in the meanwhile.
“Well, I hardly know that I should call it a holiday,” he replied immediately.“I have just run up to say good-bye to Ewart before offering my services to my King and country. We had intended to join up together, but he has, as you know, been detained for the time being, so I am off by myself.”
“We are very old friends,” I explained, “and Burnham very decently decided to come here to see me as I was unable to go south to see him.”
“Never mind, Mr. Ewart,” said Hilderman. “I guess you’ll be able to join him very soon. I wish you luck, Mr. Burnham. I suppose it won’t be long before you leave.”
“He’s talking of returning to-morrow,” I cut in. “I wish you’d tell him it’s ridiculous, Mr. Hilderman. Fancy coming all this way for twenty-four hours. He must have a look round, to say nothing of his stinginess in depriving me of his company so soon.”
“Well, I can quite understand Mr. Burnham’s anxiety to join at the earliest possible moment,” he answered. “But I’ve no doubt Lord Kitchener wouldn’t miss him for a day. I think he might multiply his visit by two, and stop till Wednesday, at any rate. Ah, here’s theFiona!”
I looked out to the mouth of the harbour, and saw the steam yacht, which was in the habit of calling at Glasnabinnie, gliding past the lighthouse rock. I was about to make some comment on the boat when Hilderman forestalled me.
“How are you going back?” he asked.
“In a motor-boat,” I replied. “I am afraid Angus is getting weary of waiting already.”
“I’m sure Mr. Fuller would be delighted to have you fellows on board. Why not let your man take Mr. Burnham’s luggage to Invermalluch, and come to Glasnabinnie on theFiona? You can lunch with me, and when you tire of our company I will run you across in theBaltimore. Eh? What do you say?”
“I shall be delighted, of course,” his companion broke in.
I hesitated for a moment, and glanced at Dennis. His face obviously said, “Accept,” so I accepted.
“Thank you,” I said; “we shall be very pleased. It will be more jolly than going back by ourselves.”
“Good!” cried Hilderman, “and I can show you the view from my smoking-room. I hope it will make you green with envy.”
So I gave Angus his instructions, and the four of us waited at the fish-table steps for the dinghy to come ashore from the yacht. She was not a particularly beautiful boat, but she looked comfortable and strong, and her clumsy appearance was accentuated by the fact that her funnel was aft a commodious deck dining-saloon, on the top of which was a small wheel-house. Myra had been right, as it turned out; she was a converted drifter. The two men who came in to pick us up wore the usual blue guernsey, withS.Y. Fionaworked in an arc of red wool across the chest. They were obviously good servants and useful hands, but there was none of that ridiculousimitation of naval custom and etiquette which delights the heart of the Cotton Exchange yacht-owner. We boarded theFionawith the feeling that we were going to have a pleasant and comfortable time, and not with the fear that our setting of a leather-soled shoe upon the hallowed decks was in itself an act of sacrilege. We were no sooner aboard than Fuller set himself to play the host with a charm which was exceedingly attentive and neither fussy nor patronising.
“The trivial but necessary question of edible stores will detain us for a few moments,” he said. “But we shall be more comfortable here than wandering about among the herrings.” So we made ourselves comfortable in deck-chairs in the stern, while the steward went ashore and made the all-important purchases.
“You cruise a good deal, I suppose?” was my first question.
“Yes, a fair amount,” our host replied. “I pretty well live on board, you know, although I have a small house further north, on Loch Duich, if you know where that is.”
“Mr. Ewart was born up here, and knows it backwards,” Hilderman informed him. And we chatted about the district and the fishing and the views until the steward returned, and we got under weigh. I should have liked to have seen the accommodation below, but the journey was a short one, and I had no opportunity to make thesuggestion. Dennis was sitting nearest the rail, and there was a small hank of rope at his feet.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Burnham,” said Fuller suddenly. “I didn’t notice that rope was in your way.” And he learned over and tossed the rope away. As he did so some hard object fell with a clatter from the coil.
“It’s not interfering with me in the least,” laughed Dennis, and looked down at a large, bone-handled clasp-knife which had dropped in front of him. He picked it up idly, and weighed it in his hand.
“Useful sort of implement,” he said.
“Oh, these sailor-chaps like a big knife more than anything,” said Hilderman; “and, of course, they need them strong. I daresay that has been used for anything, from primitive carpentry to cutting tobacco. The one knife always does for everything.”
We continued our conversation while Dennis idly examined the knife, opening it and studying the blade absently. Presently Fuller, noticing his absorption, began to chaff him about it.
“Well,” he laughed, “have you compiled a complete history of the knife and it’s owner? If you’re ready to sit an examination on the subject I will constitute myself examiner, then we’ll find who the knife belongs to, and corroborate or contradict your conclusions.”
“It’s a very ordinary knife to find on board a boat, I should think,” said Dennis.
“Oh come, Mr. Burnham,” Hilderman joined in, “you mustn’t wriggle out of it. Surely you can answer Mr. Fuller’s questions.”
“If Mr. Fuller will allow me to put one or two preliminary questions to him,” Dennis replied, entering into the spirit of fun, “I am ready to go into the witness-box and swear quite a number of fanciful things.”
“Come now, Fuller,” chaffed Hilderman. “You must give him a run for his money, you know. He is risking his reputation at a moment’s notice. I think you ought to let him ask you three questions, at any rate.”
“Fire away, Mr. Burnham,” said our host. “I’ll give you a start of three questions, and then you must be prepared to answer every reasonable question I put to you, or be branded publicly as an unreliable witness and an incompetent detective.”
Dennis puffed at his pipe and smiled, and I was surprised to see that he really was bringing his mind to bear on the trivial problem with all the acuteness he had in him.
“Well, in the first place,” he asked, “do you stop in port very often overnight, or for any length of time during the day?”
“I never stop in port longer than I can help,” laughed Fuller, “or the owner of that knife would probably take the opportunity of buying a new one, and throwing this old thing away. All the same, I don’t see how that is going to help you.”
“Ah,” said Dennis, in bantering vein, “you mustn’t expect me to give away my process, you know. The secret’s been in the family for years.”
“What’s your second question, Den?” I asked.
“Is there a hotel within reasonable distance of your house on Loch Whatever-it-is, Mr. Fuller?”
“Loch Duich?” our host replied. “There’s one about six miles by road and eleven or twelve by the sea.”
“I don’t think I need ask you the third question, then,” said Dennis. “You can begin your examination now.”
“Now, Mr. Burnham,” Fuller commenced, “you quite understand that anything you say will be taken down in writing, and may be used as evidence against you?”
“I assure you I have a keen appreciation of the gravity of the situation,” Dennis replied seriously.
“Well,” said Fuller. “I’ll begin with an easy one—one that won’t tax your powers of observation beyond endurance.”
“Yes,” I urged, “let him down gently. He does his best.”
“What profession does the owner of that knife follow?”
Hilderman and I laughed.
“We may as well count that answer as read,” he said.
“There’s a catch there, Dennis,” I warned him. “The legal designation is ‘mariner.’”
“I don’t think it is,” said my friend.
“We won’t quarrel about terms,” laughed our host graciously. “Sailor or seaman or deckhand will do just as well.”
“No,” said Dennis, “it won’t. The owner of this knife is not a sailor by profession.”
“But,” Fuller protested, “it must belong to one of my crew, and it is obviously a seaman’s knife.”
“In that case,” Dennis answered, “I think you’ll find that you have a man on board who is not a professional seaman in the ordinary use of the term. I’ll tell you what I think of this knife, shall I?”
“By all means,” urged Hilderman and his friend together, and I began to take a keen interest in this curious discussion, for I could see that Dennis was no longer playing. He turned the knife over in his hand, and looked up at Fuller.
“Mr. Fuller,” he said quietly, “the owner of this knife is not a sailor by profession. He is probably a schoolmaster. I can’t be sure of that, but I can say this definitely: he is a professional man of some sort, possibly an engineer, but, as I say, more probably a mathematical master. He is left-handed, has red hair, a wife, and at least one child.”
I shouted with laughter when I realised how thoroughly my friend had pulled my leg, but Ibroke off abruptly when Hilderman sat bolt upright, and his chair and Fuller’s cigar fell unheeded on to the deck. But in a second they took their cue from me, and roared with laughter.
“Oh, excellent, Mr. Burnham,” said Hilderman between his guffaws. “But you forgot to mention that his sister married a butcher’s assistant.”
“Ah, but I don’t admit she did,” Dennis protested.
“I’m very much indebted to you for exposing this masquerader,” said Fuller. “I shall have the matter inquired into. But seriously, Mr. Burnham, you made one extraordinary fluke in your deductions, which almost took my breath away. I have a man on board with red hair, and when the boat came into the harbour he was working about here. I saw him leave his work to come ashore for us. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to find that the knife belonged to him.”
“Oh, well,” Dennis laughed, “one shot right is not a bad average for a beginner, you know.”
“No,” said Hilderman, puffing a cloud of smoke, and dreamily following its ascent with his eyes, “not bad at all. Not bad at all.”
And then, the joke of the clasp-knife being played out, we admired the scenery, and conversed of less speculative subjects till we arrived at Glasnabinnie.
We were pulled ashore by the man with thered hair, and when our host confronted him with the knife he promptly claimed it.
“I think you won, Mr. Burnham,” laughed Fuller, and Dennis smiled in reply. We slid alongside the landing-stage and stepped out, and Dennis’s schoolmaster was about to slip the painter through a ring and make the boat fast. But evidently the ring was broken. The man came ashore, and Hilderman began to lead us up the path. But Dennis deliberately turned and watched the sailor. Hilderman and his companion strolled ahead while I stood beside Dennis. The man with the red hair fished among a pile of wire rope, and picked out a small marline-spike. Then he lifted a large stone, held the marline-spike on the wooden planking of the landing-stage, and hammered it in with the stone. Then he threw the painter round it, and made the boat secure in that way.
“Yes,” murmured Dennis quietly, as we turned to join the others, “I think I won.”
For the man had held the stone in his left hand.
“Well,” said Hilderman, as we caught them up, “what about lunch? After his journey I daresay Mr. Burnham has an appetite, not to mention his excursion into the realm of detective fiction.”
“We lunched at Mallaig,” I explained, “with Mr. Garnesk before we saw him off.”
“Oh, did you?” he asked, with evident surprise. “I didn’t see you at the hotel.”
“We went to the Marine,” I replied, “to save ourselves a climb up the hill.”
“We had a snack at Mallaig too,” the American continued, “intending to lunch here. Are you sure you couldn’t manage something?”
“It would have to be a very slight something,” Dennis put in. “But I daresay we could manage that.”
“Good!” said Hilderman. “Come along, then, and let’s see what we can do.”
We strolled into the drawing-room through the inevitable verandah, and though Hilderman was the tenant of the furnished house he had contrived to impart a suggestion of his own personality to the room. The furniture was arranged in a delightfully lazy manner that almost made you yawn. The walls were hung with photographic enlargements of some of themost beautiful spots in the neighbourhood. I remembered what Myra had told me as to his being an enthusiastic photographer, so I asked him about them.
“Did you take these, Mr. Hilderman?”
“Yes,” he answered. “These are just a few of the best. I have many others which I should like you to see some time. I always leave the enlarging to keep me alive during the winter months. These are a few odd ones I enlarged for decorative purposes.”
“They are beautiful,” I said enthusiastically, for they were real beauties, more like drawings in monochrome than photographs. “And you certainly seem to have got about the neighbourhood since your arrival.”
“Yes,” he laughed, “I don’t miss much when I get out with my camera. Most of these were taken during the first month of my stay here.”
“These snow scenes from the Cuchulins are simply gorgeous, and surely this is the Kingie Pool on the Garry?”
“Right first time,” he admitted, evidently pleased to see his work admired. I thought of Garnesk’s suspicion that our American friend was engaged on detective work of some kind, and it struck me that with his camera and his obvious talent he had an excellent excuse for going almost anywhere, supposing he were called upon at any time to explain his presence in some outlandish spot.
“You must have kept yourself exceedingly busy,” I remarked in conclusion.
After the meal we adjourned to the hut above the falls. Hilderman certainly had some right to be proud of his view. It was magnificent. We stood outside the door and gazed out to sea, north, south and west, for some minutes.
“You have the same uninterrupted view from inside,” said Hilderman, as we mounted the three steps to the door. He held the door open, and I stepped in first, followed by Dennis and Fuller. The window extended the whole length of the room, and folded inwards and upwards, in the same way as some greenhouse windows do. Suddenly I laughed aloud.
“What’s the joke?” asked Hilderman.
“This,” I said, pointing to a large carbon transparency of a mountain under snow, which hung in the window on the north side. “You’ve no idea how this has been annoying us over at Invermalluch.”
“How?” asked Dennis.
“It swings about in the breeze,” I replied, “and it reflects the light and catches everybody’s eye. It’s a very beautiful photograph, Mr. Hilderman, but, like many human beings, it’s exceedingly unpopular owing to the position it holds.”
“A thousand apologies, Mr. Ewart,” said the American. “It shall be removed at once.”
“Oh, not at all!” I protested.“Surely you are entitled to hang a positive of a photograph in your window without receiving a protest from neighbours who live nearly three miles away.”
“That’s Invermalluch Lodge, then, across the water,” Dennis asked.
“Yes,” I replied, and we forgot about the transparency, which remained in undisputed possession of a pitch to which it was certainly entitled. We sat and smoked, and looked out at the mountains of Skye and the wonderful panorama of sea and loch, with an occasional glance at the gurgling waterfall at our feet, and presently I picked up a copy of an illustrated paper which was lying at my hand. I turned the pages idly, and threw a cursory glance at the photographs of the week’s brides, and the latest efforts of the theatrical press agents, and I noticed, without thinking anything of the fact, that one page had been roughly torn out. I was about to remark that probably the most interesting or amusing picture in the whole paper had been accidentally destroyed, when Fuller leaned across Dennis, and took the paper out of my hands.
“Don’t insult Mr. Hilderman’s precious view by reading the paper in his smoking-room, Mr Ewart,” he said, with a loud laugh. “As a Highlander you should have more tact than that.”
Hilderman turned round, and looked from one to other of us.
“What paper is he reading? I didn’t know there was one here.”
I explained what paper it was, adding, “I quite admit that it was a waste of time when I ought to be admiring your unrivalled view, Mr. Hilderman. I offer you my sincere apologies.”
Hilderman threw a quick glance at Mr. Fuller.
“Better give it him back, Fuller,” he said. “There is nothing more annoying than to have a paper snatched away from you when you’re half-way through it.”
Shortly after that Fuller declared that he must be leaving, and asked Hilderman rather pointedly whether he felt like a trip to Loch Duich. I determined to step in with an idea of my own.
“I was going to make a suggestion myself, Mr. Hilderman,” I began, “but it doesn’t matter if you are engaged.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’m particularly keen to come with you this afternoon, Fuller,” he remarked. “What was your suggestion, Mr. Ewart?”
“I was wondering whether you would come over to Invermalluch with Burnham and me and—er—have a look round with us?”
“Well, if Fuller doesn’t think it exceedingly rude of me, I should like to,” the American replied, “especially as Mr. Burnham will be leaving you to-morrow, or the day after at latest.”
“Incidentally, I don’t know how we shall get back without you,” I pointed out. “You see, we sent the motor-boat on.”
“By Jove, so you did!” Hilderman exclaimed. “Well, that settles it, Fuller.”
“I could take them on theFionaand put them ashore,” his companion persisted. Hilderman gave Fuller a look which seemed to clinch the matter, however, for the little man beamed at me through his spectacles, and explained that if he took us in his yacht it would be killing two birds with one stone.
“Still, of course, my dear fellow,” he concluded, “you must please yourselves entirely.”
So we saw him safely on board theFiona, and then started for Invermalluch in Hilderman’s magnificent Wolseley launch.
“Fuller knows me,” he explained, by way of apology. “I go up with him sometimes as often as three times a week, but I gathered that you asked me with a view to discussing the mystery of the green flash, or whatever you call it.”
“You’re quite right; I did,” I replied. “I simply want you to come and have a look at the river, and see what you can make of it.”
“Anything I can do, you know, Mr. Ewart,” he assured me, “I shall be delighted to do. If you think it will be of any assistance to you if I explore the river with you—well, I’m ready now.”
From that we proceeded to give him, at his request, minute details of Garnesk’s conclusions on the matter, and I am afraid I departed fromthe truth with a ready abandon and a certain relish of which I ought to have been most heartily ashamed.
When we stepped ashore at Invermalluch Hilderman looked back across the water.
“If I’d waited for Fuller,” he laughed, “I should have been stuck there yet. He’s let the water go off the boil or something.”
We went up to the house and had tea on the verandah, for the General had taken Myra up Loch Hourn in the motor-boat. After tea we got to business.
“Now that I’ve had a very refreshing cup of tea,” the American remarked, “I feel rather like the mouse who said ‘Nowbring out your cat’ when he had consumed half a teaspoonful of beer! Now show me the river.”
“I don’t want to sound at all panicky,” I said, “but I think I ought to warn you that our experiences at the particular spot we are going to have—well, shall we say they have provided a striking contrast from the routine of our daily life?”
“I’m not at all afraid of the river, Mr. Ewart,” he replied lightly. “I should be the last person to doubt the statements of yourself and Miss McLeod and the General, but I am inclined to think the river has no active part in the proceedings.”
“You hold the view that it was the merest coincidence that Miss McLeod and the General both had terrible and strange experiences at the same spot?” asked Dennis.
“It seems to be the only sensible view to hold,” Hilderman declared emphatically. “I must say I think Miss McLeod’s blindness might have happened in her own room or anywhere else, and the General’s strange experience seems to me to be the delusion of overwrought nerves. I confess there is only one thing I don’t understand, and that is the disappearance of the dog. That’s got me beaten, unless it was that crofter.”
“We intend to go to the Saddle to-morrow and make a few investigations. I was going by myself,” I added cautiously, “but I think I can persuade Burnham to stay and go with me.”
“I certainly should stay for that, Mr. Burnham,” Hilderman advised. “One more day can’t make much difference.”
“I’ll think it over,” said Dennis, careful not to commit himself rashly.
We came to the Dead Man’s Pool, and crossed over the river, and began to walk up the other side.
“This is about the right time for a manifestation of the mystery,” I remarked lightly, though I was far from laughing about the whole thing.
“Well,” said Hilderman, “if we are to see the green flash in operation I hope it will be in a gentle mood, and not pull our teeth out one by one or anything of that sort.” Evidently he had little sympathy with our fear of the green ray and the awe with which we approached the neighbourhood of the river.
“Are we going to the right place?” Dennis asked. “I mean the identical spot?”