“That lozenge-shaped thing up there is the Chemist’s Rock,” I replied, “and the other important place is Dead Man’s Pool, which we have just left.”
“Miss McLeod went blind on the Chemist’s Rock, didn’t she?” Dennis inquired.
“Yes,” I replied, with a shudder. “She was fishing from it.”
“Then suppose we go back to the pool,” he suggested. We agreed readily enough, for I had no desire to hang about the fateful rock, and Hilderman for his part seemed to have no faith in the idea at all. I fancy he thought it would make no difference to us in what part of the river we might be, only provided we didn’t fall in. So Dennis led the way back, and he was the first to pick his way to the middle of the stream. Hilderman and I were some distance behind. Suddenly we stopped stock-still, and looked at him. He had begun to cough and splutter, and he seemed rooted to the small stone he was standing on in the middle of the stream. In a flash I understood, and with a cry I bounded after him, Hilderman following at my heels.
“It’s all right, Ewart,” cried Hilderman behind me. “He’s only choked, or something of that sort. He’ll be all right in a minute.”
Dennis had crossed to the centre of the stream by a way of his own, and we ran down to the stepping-stones by which we had come, in orderto save the time which we should have been compelled to waste in feeling for a foothold as we went. Every second was of importance, and I fully expected to see Dennis topple unconscious into the pool below before I should be able to save him. I knew what it was exactly; he was going through my own horrible experience of “drowning on dry land,” to quote Garnesk’s vigorous phrase. Imagine my astonishment, therefore, when I reached Dennis’s side with only a slight difficulty in breathing. There was no sign, or at least very little, of the air which was “heavier than water.” Hilderman plunged along behind me, and we reached the stone on which my friend was standing almost simultaneously. Dennis held an arm pointing up the river, his face transfixed with an expression of horrified amazement. Suddenly Hilderman gave a hoarse, shrill shout, breaking almost into a scream.
“Shut your eyes!” he yelled. “Shut your eyes! Oh, for heaven’s sake, shut your eyes!”
But I never thought of following his advice. Dennis’s immovable arm, pointing like an inanimate signpost up the river, fascinated me. Slowly I raised my eyes in that direction. Then I stepped back with a startled cry, lost my footing, slipped, and fell on my face among the rocks.
The river had disappeared!
The river had disappeared!
In front of us was a great green wall of solid rock, which seemed to tower into the sky above us, and to stretch away for miles to right and left. The curious part about it was that the rock was undoubtedly solid. The shrubs that grew upon it, the great crevices and clefts, were all real. I knew—though I had a hard struggle to make myself believe—that it was all a marvellous and indescribable delusion, for there could be no cliff where only a few seconds before there had been a mighty, rushing torrent.
And yet I could have planted finger and foot on the ledges of that solid precipice and climbed to the invisible summit. Hilderman was muttering to himself beneath his breath, but I was too dazed, my brain was too numbed to make any sense out of the confused mumble of words which came from him. Dennis held my arm in a vice-like grip that stopped the circulation, and almost made me cry out with the pain.
Hilderman staggered, his arm over his eyes, across the stepping-stones to the side of the stream. I found my voice at last.
“Dennis!” I shouted at the top of my voice, though why I should have shouted I can never explain, for my friend was standing just besideme. “Dennis, come away, man. Get out of this!”
I exerted my strength to the uttermost, but Dennis was immovable, rooted to the spot by the strange, snake-like fascination of the nightmare. Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the rock disappeared again, and there before our startled gaze was a peacefully flowing river. Dennis turned to me with a face as white as a sheet.
“The place is haunted,” he said, with a somewhat hysterical laugh.
“Let’s get away from it and sit down, and think it over,” I urged, pulling him away. We made for the side of the river and sat down, at a very safe distance from the bank. I rolled up my sleeve, and had a look at my arm.
“Great Scott!” Dennis exclaimed, as I dangled the pinched and purple limb painfully. “What on earth did that?”
“I’m afraid it was your own delicate touch and dainty caress that did it, old man. You seized hold of me as if you hadn’t seen me for years, and I owed you a thousand pounds.”
“Ron, my dear fellow,” he said penitently, “I’m most awfully sorry. Why didn’t you shout?”
I burst out laughing.
“I entered a protest in vigorous terms, but you were otherwise engaged at the moment, and, anyway, don’t look so scared about it, old man; it’ll be quite all right in a minute.”
Poor Dennis was quite upset at the evidence I bore of his absorption in the miracle, and we postponed our discussion while he massaged the injured arm in order to restore the flow of blood.
“Where’s Hilderman?” I asked presently, and though we looked everywhere for the American he was nowhere to be seen.
“He didn’t look the sort to funk like that,” said Dennis thoughtfully.
“I should have been prepared to bet he was quite brave,” I concurred. “Well, anyway,” I added, “the main point is, what do you think of our entertainment? You’ve come a long way for it, but I hope you are not disappointed now you’ve seen it. It’s original, isn’t it?”
“By heaven, Ron!” he cried, “you’re right. It is original. It is even a more unholy, indescribable mystery than I expected, and I never accused you of exaggerating it, even in my own mind.”
“I’m glad that both you and Hilderman have had ocular demonstration of it,” I remarked. “It is so much more convincing, and will help you to go into the matter without any feeling that we are out on a hare-brained shadow-chase.”
“We’re certainly not that, anyhow,” Dennis agreed emphatically. “It is a real mystery, Ronald, my boy. A real danger, as well, I’m afraid. But we’ll stick at it till the end.”
“Thanks, old fellow,” I said simply, and then I added, “I wonder what can have become of Hilderman?”
“Gad!” cried Dennis, in sudden alarm. “He can’t have fallen into the river by any chance?”
We jumped to our feet and looked about us.
“No,” I said presently, “he hasn’t fallen into the river.” And I pointed a finger out to sea. TheBaltimore II., churning a frantic way across to Glasnabinnie, seemed to divide the intervening water in one great white slash.
“I wonder,” said Dennis quietly, “isthat funk, or isn’t it?”
We watched the diminishing craft for a minute or two in silence, and finally decided to keep an open mind on the subject until we might have an opportunity to see Hilderman and hear his own explanation.
“Talking about explanations, what about the left-handed schoolmaster with the red-headed wife, or whatever it was?” I asked.
“That was a bit of luck,” said Dennis modestly, “and I will admit, if you like, that we owe that to Garnesk.”
“Garnesk wasn’t there,” I protested.
“No,” my friend admitted,“he wasn’t there at the time, but he put me on the look-out for a left-handed sailor. I was very much impressed with his deductions about the man who stole Miss McLeod’s dog, and I determined to be on the look-out for a left-handed man. I also admit that I carefully watched everyone we met, especially the fishermen at Mallaig, to see if I could detect the sort of man I wanted. I was rewarded when we were pulled out to theFionaby those two men of Fuller’s. One of them was red-headed, you remember? Well, that man was left-handed. It was very easy to observe that by the way he held his oar and generally handled things. Of course I was very bucked about it, so I paid very close attention to him. He wore a wedding-ring—ergo, he was married. It is not conclusive, of course, but a fairly safe guess when you’re playing at toy detectives. So when I found the knife I looked for some sign that it belonged to him, and found it. It was all quite simple.”
“I daresay it will be when you explain it, but you haven’t in the least explained it yet,” I pointed out. “How about the schoolmaster and all that, and what made you think the knife belonged to him.”
“Simply because he was very probably—working on the law of averages—the only left-handed man among the crew, and that knife belonged to a left-handed man.”
“But my dear old fellow,” I cried, “you don’t seriously mean to tell me that you can say whether a man is left-handed or not by looking at marks on the handle of his knife?”
“Not on the handle,” Dennis explained; “on the blade. Have you got a knife on you?”
I produced my pen-knife.
“I’ll trust you with it,” I declared confidently. “I’ve never held any secrets from you, Den.”
Dennis opened the knife and laid it in thepalm of his hand. I stood still and watched him.
“You’ve sharpened pencils with this knife and the pencils have left their mark. If you hold the knife as you would when sharpening a pencil and look down on the blade there are no pencil marks visible. Now turn the knife over and you will find the marks on the other side of the blade.”
“Half a minute,” I said eagerly, “let’s have a look. The knife is in position for sharpening a pencil and the back of the knife is pointing to my chest. The marks are underneath.” I took a pencil from my pocket and tried it. “Yes, I’ve got you, Dennis. It’s quite clear. If I held the knife with the point to my right instead of to my left, as I should do in sharpening with my left hand, the marks appear on the other side of the blade. It is not quite conclusive, Den, but it’s jolly cute.”
“Not when you’re looking for it,” he said.“I was struck by the fact that the knife which, by its size and weight, was a seaman’s handy tool, had also been used for the repeated sharpening of a blue pencil. When I saw those indications I went through the motion and came to the conclusion that the marks were on the wrong side. Then I tried with my left hand and accounted for it. The blue pencil made me suspicious. I have no knowledge of a yacht-hand’s duties, but surely sharpening blue pencils is not one of them. Then the knife had also been carried in the same pocket as a piece of white chalk. The only sort of person I could think of who would carry a piece of chalk loose in his pocket and use a blue pencil continuously was a schoolmaster. So I stated definitely—there’s nothing like bluff—that the knife belonged to the left-handed man, who quite obviously had red hair, who appeared to wear the insignia of the married state, and who—again according to the law of averages—had at least one child. I naturally slumped the schoolmaster idea in with it, and there you have the whole thing in a nutshell. But it was Garnesk who set me looking for left-handed clues, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, it would never have entered my head.”
“But look here,” I suggested, “some people sharpen pencils by pointing the pencil to them. Wouldn’t that produce the same effect?”
“Yes,” he admitted, “I thought of that. But the marks would have been very much fainter, because there would have been much less pressure. I put that idea aside.”
“Good!” I exclaimed. “I should much prefer to swallow your theory whole, Dennis, but it struck me that might be a possible source of error, which, of course, might have led us on to a false trail. And, I say, those questions you asked about the time he stayed in port and the hotel. Were those all bluff? Or had you some sort of idea at the back of them?”
“I had a very definite idea at the back of them,” Dennis replied. “I thought perhaps the white chalk which was deposited in the blade-pocket, and was even noticeable on the handle, might be due to billiard chalk. But, of course, I didn’t mention billiards, because it would have given my line of reasoning away. I thought it was better to spring it on them with a bump.”
“Which you certainly did,” I laughed. “As a matter of fact, I thought you were simply having a game with us all. But now that you’ve told me the details, Den, do you remember what happened when you did spring it on them?”
“Well, of course I do,” he replied. “But even so, I hardly know what to make of it. I should like to feel confidently that Fuller is the man we are after. But we must remember that both he and Hilderman might very easily have thought I really had discovered something from the knife and been exceedingly surprised without having any guilty connection with the discovery.”
“H’m,” I muttered, “I prefer to suspect Fuller.”
“Oh, I do too,” Dennis agreed. “It is safer to suspect everybody in a case like this. But why are you so emphatic?”
“Well,” I explained,“we have a few little things to go on. Myra diagnosed that Sholto was taken on a yacht by Garnesk’s left-handed man in sea-boots. Then you produce a left-handed member of a yacht’s crew out of an old pocket-knife, and Fuller jumps out of his skin when you mention it. That seems to be something to go on, and then there was that incident in the smoking-room.”
“When you were reading the paper?” he asked. “I couldn’t make that out. Did you notice anything suspicious about it?”
“Of course I was in a suspicious mood,” I admitted, “but it struck me as a singularly rude thing to do to snatch the paper out of my hand like that. His remark about Hilderman’s precious view was very weak. I think there was something behind it.”
“What?” asked Dennis.
“It may have been that there was a letter, or something in the way of a paper, which he didn’t want me to see laid inside the paper; but there was another curious point about it. There was a page torn out. I had just noticed this and was on the point of making some silly remark about it when Fuller leaned right across you and took the thing from me, as you saw.”
“If the page he didn’t want you to see was torn out, there was no chance of your seeing it,” Dennis argued, logically enough.
“No,” I agreed, “but after your exhibition, if he had anything to conceal he may have been afraid of my even seeing that the page was torn out.”
“What do you imagine the missing page can possibly have contained?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, and thought hard for a minute. “By Jove, Den!” I cried suddenly, “I believe I’ve got it. This takes us back to Garnesk’s idea of a wireless invention causing all the trouble. We think we have reason to believe that Fuller may have stolen the dog. We also think we have reason to believe that one of his yacht-hands is what you called ‘a mathematical master.’ Now, suppose the paper had got hold of this and printed an illustration of the mysterious invention or perhaps a photograph of the mysterious inventor?”
“And the inventor, knowing that we should accuse him of blinding Miss McLeod and making off with her dog, the moment we could identify him, tears out the offending illustration in case either we or anyone else in the neighbourhood should see it? He admitted, by the way, that he never went into port if he could help it.”
“Well, anyway,” I said, “we’ll have a look for the paper and find the missing page.”
“You noticed the date?” Dennis asked, anxiously.
“Oh! it was this week’s issue,” I replied.
“Do they take it at the house?” he inquired, again with a note of anxiety.
“Not that I know of, but we’ll rake one up somewhere, don’t you fret. And, I say, this is a fine way to welcome a visitor; you haven’t even said how-do to your host and hostess. I’m most awfully sorry.”
“Don’t be an ass, Ronnie,” said Dennis, cheerfully. “With the utmost respect, as you barrister chaps would say, I hadn’t noticed your departure from the requirements of conventional hospitality. I wouldn’t have missed this for all the world and a bit of Bond Street.”
So then we hurried to the house with a nervous energy, which spoke eloquently to our state of suppressed excitement.
“All the same,” Den muttered dolefully, as we hurried down the stable path, “it’s going to be what the Americans would call ‘some’ wireless invention that can plant a grown-up mountain in the middle of an innocent river in the twinkling of an eyelash.”
“It is, indeed, old fellow,” I agreed, “but don’t let us worry about that. We’ll get in and see Myra and the General, and then have a look round for thePictures—the paper you were looking at.”
We found Myra sitting on the verandah and wondering what on earth had kept us, and if we had changed our minds and gone straight back south with Garnesk.
“I’m most awfully sorry, darling,” I apologised. “It’s all my fault, of course. We went to Glasnabinnie, and since then I’ve been showing Dennis the river and generally forgetting my duties as deputy host.”
“What did you go to the river for?” Myra asked, suspiciously.
“Oh! just to have a look round, you know, dear. It’s a very nice river,” I replied, airily.
“Ronnie, dear, please,” she said gently, laying her hand on my arm and turning her veiled and shaded face to mine, “please don’t joke about it. I can’t bear to think of you running risks there.”
I looked at my beautiful, blind darling, and a pang shot through me.
“God knows I’m not joking about it, dearest,” I said sadly.
“I know you weren’t really, Ronnie. But, please, oh! please, keep away from the river.”
“Very well, dear,” I promised, “I will, unless an urgent duty takes me there. We must solve this mystery somehow, and it may mean my going to the river. But I promise not to run any unnecessary risks.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him and see that he takes care of himself, Miss McLeod,” said Dennis, coming to the rescue.
“Thank you, Mr. Burnham,” the girl replied, “but you know it applies to you as well. You must look after yourself also.”
“By the way, dear,” I asked, changing the subject, “have you a copy of this week’sPictures?”
“I’m afraid not,” she answered. “Must it be thePictures? I’ve just been looking at another illustrated paper.”
“Looking at what?” I cried, jumping tomy feet. “Darling, who’s talking about running risks?”
“Oh, it’s all right, dear,” she assured me. “I got Mary to bring my dark-room lamp down to the den and just glanced at the pictures by the red light. But I won’t do it again, if it alarms you, dear. All the same, I’m quite sure I could see by daylight.”
“You promised Garnesk you wouldn’t till you heard from him, darling,” I urged. “It might be very dangerous, so please don’t for my sake.”
“Very well, then,” Myra sighed, “I’ll try to be good. But I hope he’ll write soon.”
“Where do you think we could get a copy of the paper?” I asked shortly.
“If it’s frightfully important, dear, you might get one in Glenelg, and, failing that, Doctor Whitehouse would lend you his. I know he takes it in. Why are you so keen about it?”
“We’ll go into the den and tell you everything in a minute or two, dear,” I promised. “Is there any objection to my sending Angus in to the doctor?”
“None whatever,” Myra declared, “he can go now if you like.”
So after I had despatched Angus into the village with strict instructions not to come back without a copy of the paper if he valued his life, we all adjourned to Myra’s den, and my friend and I told her in detail everything that had happened. About an hour and a half later Angus returned with the paper. I took it fromhim with a hurried word of thanks and nervously turned over the pages.
“Ah! here’s a page I didn’t see,” I exclaimed excitedly, but the only thing on the whole page was a photograph of a new dancer appearing in London. Without waiting for me to do so, Dennis leaned over me and turned the page over with a quick jerk of the wrist.
“Phew!” I exclaimed involuntarily, and Dennis gave a long, low whistle.
“Oh! what is it? Tell me!” pleaded Myra, anxiously.
“It’s a photograph of our friend Fuller,” I replied slowly, in a voice that shook with excitement. “And he’s wearing court dress, and underneath the photograph are the words ‘Baron Hugo von Guernstein, Secretary of the Military Intelligence Department of the Imperial German General Staff.’”
“There’s no doubt about it,” I remarked as soon as we had partially recovered from our surprise. “That’s Fuller right enough.”
“Oh! there’s no doubt it’s our man,” said Dennis emphatically. “Even if we had not the evidence of the torn page to corroborate it, the likeness is perfect.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but what do you think his game can be? I’m coming round to Garnesk’s wireless theory.”
“Whatever it is, we’ve stumbled on something of real importance this time. We must find out what it is and show it up at once.”
“I hope you’ll take care,” said Myra anxiously. “I shouldn’t mind so much if I could be with you to help, but it’s dreadful to sit here and know you are in danger and not be able to do anything at all.”
“I’m very glad you can’t, darling,” I said heartily, as I threw my arm round her shoulders. “I don’t want you to come rushing into these dangers, whatever they may be. In a way I am glad you are not able to join us, because I know how difficult it would be to stop you if you were.”
“I suppose this is all one affair,” she said doubtfully.“You don’t think this is something quite different from the green ray? It might be two quite separate things, you know.”
“I don’t think we are likely to meet with two such interesting problems in such a remote locality unless they are connected with each other, Miss McLeod, and especially as everything else apart from the photograph of Baron von Guernstein points to Fuller as the culprit. I think we can take it that in solving one mystery we provide the solution to the other.”
“I quite agree with you, Dennis,” I said, “but what I am worrying about now is, what we are going to do.”
“The first thing you must do is to dress for dinner, and not let anyone imagine there is anything untoward about,” Myra advised. “And please don’t tell father you have been lunching with one of the Kaiser’s principal spies, if that’s what the Baron’s title really means. I would much rather you said nothing to him at all about it for the present, and in any case you must have something definite in mind as to your plans before you put the matter to him. If you tell him you don’t know what to do about it he will be in a dreadful state. He is very far from well, and all this business has told on him dreadfully.”
“That is very excellent advice, Miss McLeod,” Dennis agreed warmly.“Ronald, we’ll go and disguise ourselves as ordinary, undisturbed human beings and hide our fears and doubts behind the breastplate of a starched shirt. Come along.”
So Dennis dragged me away, and then, realising his indiscretion, allowed me to return to myfiancée“just for two minutes, old fellow.”
Dinner was a curious meal, though not quite so strange as the meal the General and I had together the night, less than a week before, that Myra lost her sight.
I hope I shall never live through a week like that again. Even now, as I look back, I cannot believe that it all happened in seven days. It still seems to have been something like seven months at the very least.
We had one thing in our favour as we sat down to the table; we all had a common object in view. We were each of us determined to forget the green ray for a moment. Fortunately the old man took an immediate fancy to Dennis and that brightened me considerably. There are few things so pleasant as to see those whose opinion you value getting on with your friends. Only once, and that after Mary McNiven had come to take poor Myra away, did the subject of the green ray crop up.
“Mr. Burnham knows about it all, I suppose?” the General asked.
“I’ve told him everything, and Garnesk and I went over the whole thing with him before the train went.”
“Good!” said the old man emphatically.“Excellent fellow Garnesk—excellent; in fact, I don’t know when I’ve met such a thundering good chap. No new developments, I suppose?”
I hesitated. I could not have brought myself to lie to him, and in view of the startling complications with which we had so recently been confronted, I was at a loss for an answer. Dennis came to my rescue just in time.
“I think Ron’s difficulty is in defining the word ‘developments,’ General,” said he. “If we said there were developments it would naturally convey the impression that we had something definite to report. I think perhaps the best way to put it would be that we believe we are getting on the right scent, by the simple process of putting two and two together and making them four. We hope to have something very decided to tell you in a day or two.”
“I shall be glad to hear something, I can assure you,” said the old man, “but in the meantime we will try to forget about it. You have had a tiring journey, Mr. Burnham, followed by a strange initiation into what is probably a new sphere of life altogether—the sphere of mysteries and detectives, and so forth. No, Ronald, we’ll give Mr. Burnham a rest for to-night.”
But just as I was congratulating myself that we had escaped from the painful necessity of putting him off with an evasive answer, if not a deliberate lie, the butler entered and announcedthat he had shown Mr. Hilderman into the library.
“Well, as we are ready, we had better join him,” said the old man, and we adjourned to the other room.
Now if Hilderman should by any tactless remark betray our strange experience in the afternoon there would be the devil to pay. I followed the General into the library, beckoning to the American with a warning finger on my lip. He saw at once what I meant, fortunately, and held his tongue, and we all talked of general matters for some little time. Then Hilderman took the bull by the horns.
“As a matter of fact, General,” he announced boldly, “I ran over to have a word with Mr. Ewart about a certain matter which is interesting us all. I don’t suppose you wish me to worry you with details at the moment?”
“I should be very glad to hear what you have to tell us, Mr. Hilderman, but unfortunately I—er—I have a few letters I simply must write, so I hope you will excuse me. My daughter is in the drawing-room, so perhaps you fellows would care to join her there. Her counsel will be of more use to you than mine in your deliberations, I have no doubt.”
However, when we looked for her in the drawing-room Myra was not there, and I found her in her den.
“Why not bring him in here?” she asked.“He won’t bite, and it will be more conducive to a free and easy discussion. I should like to hear what he has to say for himself in view of his running away this afternoon, and I shouldn’t feel comfortable in the drawing-room with this shade on. In here I feel that he must just put up with any curiosities he meets.”
So we made ourselves comfortable in the den, and Hilderman sat in a chair by the window.
“Of course, you know what I have come to speak about, Mr. Ewart,” he began at once. “You must have thought my conduct this afternoon was very strange—very unsportsmanlike, to say the least.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied as lightly as I could. “It was a very strange affair, and it rather called for strange conduct of one sort or another.”
“Still, you must have thought it cowardly to run away as quickly as I could,” he insisted.
“It was some time before we even noticed you had left us,” I laughed, “and then, I confess, I couldn’t quite make out where you had got to or why you had gone.”
“As a matter of fact we were rather scared,” Dennis put in. “We searched for you in the river.”
“It sounds a very cowardly confession to make,” Hilderman admitted,“but I went back to the landing-stage, got into my boat, and cleared off as quickly as I could. I must ask you to believe that I was under the impression that it would be best for us all that I should. But my idea proved to be a bad one and nothing came of it. So here I am to ask you if you have learned anything or have anything to suggest.”
“I’m afraid we’re more at a loss than ever now,” I admitted. “The further we get with this thing the less we seem to know about it, unfortunately.”
Hilderman was exceedingly sympathetic, and though he made numerous suggestions he was as puzzled as we were ourselves. I had some difficulty in defining his attitude. We knew as much as was sufficient to hang his friend “Fuller,” but I could not make up my mind whether he really was a friend of von Guernstein’s or not. It was a small thing that decided me. On an occasionable table beside the American lay a steel paper-knife, a Japanese affair, with a carved handle and a very sharp blade. Hilderman picked up the knife and toyed with it.
“I should be careful with that, Mr. Hilderman,” I advised. “That is a wolf in sheep’s clothing; it’s exceedingly sharp.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Myra. “If you mean my paper-knife, it ought not really to be used as a paper-knife at all, the point is like a needle. I must put it away or hang it up as an ornament.”
The American laughed and laid the knife down again on the table, and we resumed our discussion. Both Dennis and I knew that we must be very careful to conceal our suspicions, but at the same time we did our best to reachsome sort of conclusion with regard to Hilderman himself.
“And, I suppose, until you have searched about the Saddle,” he remarked, “you will be no further on as to who stole Miss McLeod’s dog. It seems to me that the dog was taken by the man who wished to conceal an illicit still, and the green flash, or green ray, or whatever you call it, is simply a manifestation of some strange electrical combination in the air.”
“I’m afraid we shall have to leave it at that,” I said with an elaborate sigh of regret.
“Not when you have Mr. Burnham’s distinguished powers of deduction to assist you, surely, Mr. Ewart?” said Hilderman, and waited for an answer.
“Flukes are not very consistent things, I fear,” Dennis supplied him readily, “and if we are to make any progress we shall hardly have time for idle speculation.”
“Fortune might continue to favour you,” the American persisted. “Don’t you think it’s worth trying?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Dennis, with a laugh that added emphasis and conviction to his statement.
“By the way,” Myra suggested,“I don’t know if anybody would care for a whisky and soda or anything. I won’t have drinks served in here, but if anybody would like one, you know where everything is, Ron. I always say if anyone wants a drink in my den they can go and get it, and then I know they really like being in the den. You see I’m a woman, Mr. Hilderman,” she laughed.
“I must say I think the idea of refreshment would not enter the head of anyone who had the pleasure of your company here, Miss McLeod, unless you suggested it yourself.”
We laughed at the rather heavy compliment, and I went into the dining-room to fetch the decanters, syphons and glasses.
“I’ll help you to get them,” called Dennis, and followed me out of the room.
“Well?” I asked as soon as we reached the other room. “What do you make of it?”
“I’m not sure,” Dennis admitted. “I’m puzzled. I shouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be a Government secret service man keeping an eye on Fuller-von-Guernstein, and that when he has quite made up his mind that the mystery of the green ray is connected with his own business he will show his hand.”
“Something of the same sort occurred to Garnesk,” I said. “Well, at present we’d better avoid suspicion and go back before he thinks we’re holding a committee meeting.”
So I led the way to the den. I was walking carefully and slowly, because I was unaccustomed to carrying trays of glasses and things, and consequently I made no noise. I pushed the door open with my shoulder, Dennis following with a couple of syphons, and as I did so I chanced to glance upwards.
In a large mirror which hung over the fireplace I saw the reflection of Hilderman’s face, knitted in a fierce frown, gazing intently at some object which was outside my view. Myra was talking, though what she was saying I did not notice. I went into the room and put the tray on the big table, and as I filled the glasses I looked round casually to see what Hilderman had been looking at. Lying on the sofa on which Myra was sitting was the copy of thePictures, open at the page bearing the incriminating photograph!
I mixed Hilderman’s drink according to his instructions—for by this time he had entirely recovered his equanimity—and handed it to him. As I did so I happened to look in the direction of the small table beside him. Myra’s Japanese paper-knife was still there, but the point had been stuck more than an inch into the mahogany top of the table. I turned away quickly, with a laughing remark to Myra, which did not seem to raise any suspicion at the time, though I have no recollection now what it was I said.
A few moments afterwards I quietly and unostentatiously slipped out of the room. Surely there could be no doubt about it now. The whole thing was obvious. Hilderman had noticed the paper, jumped to the conclusion that we suspected everything, and in the sudden access of baffled rage had picked up the paper-knife and stabbed it into the table.
There was only one possible reason for that—Hildermanwas an enemy. In that case, I thought, he has come here to try and find out how much we know and to keep an eye on us. Possibly he might be attempting to keep us there so that Fuller could get up to some satanic trick elsewhere. I decided to act at once. I turned back to the den and put my head round the door.
“Will you people excuse me for a bit?” I said lightly. “The General wants me.” And with that I left them. I had almost asked Hilderman not to go till I came back, but I was afraid it might sound suspicious to his acute ears. I hardly knew what to do. I should have liked to have been able to speak with Dennis, if only for a moment. Indeed, I am quite ready to confess that just then I would have given all I possessed for ten minutes’ conversation with my friend. I stole quietly out of the house, and thought furiously.
If Hilderman wanted to keep us from spying on Fuller, where was Fuller? Would I be wiser to wait and try to keep an eye on Hilderman, or was my best plan to ignore him and try and locate his German friend? I decided on the latter course. I went back and wrote a short note to Dennis and slipped it inside his cap.
“I’m convinced they are both enemies. Take care of Myra. I may be out all night. Don’t let her worry about me; I may not be back for some time, but I shall come back all right.—R.”
I left this for my friend, knowing that sooneror later he would find it, and went down to the landing-stage. TheBaltimore II.and Myra’s boat, theJenny Spinner, were drawn up alongside, and I realised that if I took theJennyI should be raising Hilderman’s suspicions at once. Anchored a little way out was another small motor-boat—the first the General had—which Myra had also called after a trout fly—theCoch-a-Bondhu—though the play upon words was lost on most people. The boat was still in constant use, and Angus and Hamish continually went into Mallaig and Glenelg in it to collect parcels and so on. I ran to the petrol shed, and got three tins of Shell, put them in the dinghy and pushed out to theBondhu, climbed on board, sounded the tank, filled it up, and started out across the Loch. I can only plead my anxiety to get well out of sight and hearing before Hilderman should think of leaving the house, as an excuse for my lamentable thoughtlessness on this occasion. Indeed, it was not till long afterwards that I realised I had forgotten to anchor the dinghy, and I left it, just as it was, to drift out to sea on the tide.
I made all the pace I could and reached the other side in about twenty minutes. I was sadly equipped for an adventurous expedition! I had no flask to sustain me in case of need, no weapon in case I should be called to defend myself; I was wearing a dinner-jacket, no hat, and a pair of thin patent-leather pumps!
I ran the boat right in shore, heedless of thedanger to the propeller, in a small sandy cove round the point, so that I was hidden from Glasnabinnie. Then I realised that I had been a little too precipitate in my departure. There was no anchor-chain on board, and the painter was admirably suited for making fast to pier-heads and landing-stages at high tide, but was nothing like long enough to enable me to make the craft secure on short. However, I dragged her as far up as I could, and prayed that I might be able to return before the tide caught her up and carried her away. In those circumstances I should have been stranded in the enemy’s country, by no means a pleasing prospect!
Having done the best I could for Myra’s faithful motor-boat, I made my way round the hill, climbing cautiously upwards all the time, my dinner-jacket carefully buttoned in case a gleam of moonlight on my shirt-front should give me away at a critical moment. It was a rocky and difficult climb, and I soon regretted that I had not taken the bridle path to Glasnabinnie and made my way boldly up the bed of the burn. However, it was too late to turn back, and eventually, after one or two false steps and stumbles, I succeeded in reaching a spot from which I could obtain a good view of the hut. No, there was no light there, no sign of movement at all. I decided to work my way round to the other side and then, if I continued to get no satisfaction, to descend to the house. The windows of the hut, or smoking-room, as thereader will no doubt remember, extended the whole length of the structure; and surely, I thought, if there were a light in the place it would be bound to be visible. I edged round the face of a steep crag, floundered across the stream between the two falls, getting myself soaked above the knees as I did so, and crouched among the heather on the other side of the building. No, there was no one there, the place was deserted. I knelt down and peered about me listening intently.
Not a sound greeted my expectant ear save the incessant rumble of the falls. Then as I turned my attention to the house itself and looked down the course of the burn to Glasnabinnie, I could scarcely suppress a cry of astonishment. For there below me, moving to and fro between the house and the hut, was a constant procession of small lights, like a slowly moving stream of glow-worms, twenty or thirty yards apart. I was rooted to the spot. What could it mean? Was this another weird natural manifestation, or was it, as was much more likely, a couple of dozen men bearing lights? Yes, that was it, men bearing lights—and what else besides? Men don’t climb up and down steep watercourses in the night for the sake of giving an impromptu firework display to an unexpected visitor, I told myself. There was only one thing to do, and that was to investigate the matter and chance what might happen to me. I crept down to the hut, and lay on my faceamong the heather and listened. Here and there a mumble of voices, now and then a subdued shout, apparently an order to be carried out by the mysterious light-bearers, broken occasionally by the shrill call of a gull, conveyed nothing to me that I could not see. I looked up at the hut. No, there was no one there, and the windows were not screened, because I could see the moonlight streaming through the far side. Yet, surely, the hut must be their objective, I thought. Where else could they be going to? Fascinated, I crawled on my hands and knees till I could touch the walls of the smoking-room by putting out my arm. I heard a great commotion coming, it seemed, from the very ground beneath my feet.
I laid my ear to the ground and listened. The noise grew louder, and the voices seemed to be shouting against a more powerful sound—the waterfall, possibly. I thought perhaps the floor of the hut would give me more opportunity to locate the source of the disturbance. I threw caution to the winds and slipped through the wide windows into the room. I moved as carefully as I could, however, once my feet found the floor, for if there should be anyone below they would probably hear me up above. I turned back the carpet in order to hear more distinctly, and as I did so I noticed a rectangular shaft of light which trickled through the floor. There was a trap-door. I knelt down and lifted it cautiously by a leather tab which was attachedto one side of it and peered through. I can never understand how it was I did not drop that hatch again with a self-confessing crash when I realised the extraordinary nature of the sight that greeted my eyes. There was I in the smoking-hut of a peaceful American citizen, where only a few hours before I had spent a pleasant hour in friendly conversation, and now I was lying on the edge of the entrance to a great cavern.
Below me there was a confused mass of machinery and men. Some were working on scaffolding, others were many feet below. The nearest of them was so close to me that I could have leaned down and laid my hand on his head. I tried to make out what they were doing, but except that they were dismantling the machinery, whatever it might be, I could make nothing of it. I watched them breathlessly, trembling lest at any moment one of them should look up and detect my presence.
The place was lighted by electricity, though there were not enough lamps to illuminate the cavern very brightly, and as my eyes got accustomed to the lights and shadows I was able to make out the cause of this.
Evidently there was a turbine engine below, driven by the water from the falls, which supplied the necessary power. After a moment or two it dawned on me how the cavern came to be there; it was, or had been, the course of a hidden river, such as are common enough among themountains, but the stream had been diverted, probably by some sort of landslide, and had left this tumbler-shaped cave, resembling a pit shaft. Now, I thought, I have only to find out what all this machinery is for and the whole mystery is solved. I opened the trap a little further, and allowed my body to hang slightly over the edge.
Then for the first time I saw, to my right, fixed so that it almost touched the floor of the hut, a great round brass object, mounted on an enormous tripod, which, again, stood on a platform. In front of this was a large square thing like a mammoth rectangular condenser, such as is used for photographic enlarging and other projection purposes. Had it not been for this condenser I should have taken the whole thing to be an elaborate searchlight. But, I asked myself, what would be the good of a searchlight there? Suddenly the whole truth dawned upon me.
The searchlight must operate through a trap in the wall of the hut just below the floor. I leaned further in, forgetting my danger in the intoxication of sudden discovery.
Only a foot or two away from me a man was working on the searchlight. Carefully taking it to pieces, he was handing the parts to another man, who was perched on the scaffold below him. He was so close to me that I could hear him breathing. I was about to wriggle back to safety when he looked up. He gave a sudden loud shout. I lay there fascinated. After all,I thought, before they can reach me I can slip out and edge round the cliff, run down on to the shore, and get away in the motor-boat. But I had reckoned without my host. Even as the man shouted, and the others left their work to see what was the matter, Fuller dashed out from behind the platform, gave one terrified look at me, and, flinging himself at the wall of the cavern, threw all his weight on a rope which dangled there. I scuttled to my feet, intending to make a bolt for it. But the boards shivered beneath me, and, before I could realise what was happening, I found myself hurtling through the air to the floor of the cavern below.
And now, as the reader will readily understand, I must continue the story as it was afterwards related to me.
Myra, the General, and Dennis sat up and waited for me till the early hours of the morning, but I did not return. The young people did what they could to assure the old man that my sudden and unexpected disappearance had been entirely voluntary, and Dennis, who had found my note, as soon as he put on his cap to stroll out casually, and see where I had got to, gave him subtly to understand that it was really part of a prearranged plan, and Myra at length persuaded him to go to bed at midnight.
When I failed to put in an appearance at breakfast-time, however, even they began to be a trifle alarmed, but they did their best to conceal their fears. They scoured the hillside and then went down to the landing-stage. Dennis had reported the previous night that the motor-boat was still in its place when he saw Hilderman off, and it never occurred to Myra that I might make my departure in theCoch-a-Bondhu.
“He hasn’t gone by the sea, any way,” Dennis announced again, as he and the girl stood on the landing-stage.
“You mean theJennyis still there?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Dennis, “she’s just where she was when we arrived from Glasnabinnie in Hilderman’s boat yesterday.”
“Mr. Burnham!” Myra cried suddenly, “is there another boat, a brown motor-boat, anchored just out there?”
“No,” said Dennis, realising how terribly handicapped they were by Myra’s inability to see.
“Are you sure?” the girl asked anxiously.
“Quite sure,” said Dennis positively. “There is one motor-boat here, and that is all.”
“I suppose he took that to put Hilderman off the scent,” Myra mused, “and in that case he is probably quite safe. I daresay he’s gone to look for our friend von What’s-his name’s yacht or his house at Loch Duich.”
Dennis clutched at the opportunity this theory gave him to allay her fears, and declared that it was ridiculous of him not to have thought of it before, and he gave Myra his arm to the house. But he was not at all satisfied with it, and, as it turned out afterwards, Myra was not very confident about it either. Dennis knew me well enough to know that I should never have set out with the deliberate intention of stopping away overnight without leaving some more definite message for myfiancée. However, their thoughts were speedily diverted, for they had hardly reached the house before a strangeman made his way towards them through the heather.
“Mr. Ewart, sir?” he asked.
“Do you wish to speak to Mr. Ewart?” Dennis asked cautiously.
“I have a parcel and a message for him from Mr. Garnesk,” said the stranger, a young man, who might have been anything by profession.
“Oh, indeed,” said Dennis, his suspicions aroused at once. Garnesk, he knew, had only arrived in Glasgow the night before.
“I see you are wondering how I got here and why I came down the hill, instead of up a road of some sort,” said the youth with a smile.
“Frankly, I was,” Dennis admitted.
“Then, perhaps, I had better explain who I am and how I come to be here. My name is McKenzie. I am employed by Welton and Delaunay, the Glasgow opticians, makers of the ‘Weldel’ telescopes and binoculars. Mr. Garnesk has a good deal to do with our firm in the matter of designs for special glasses to withstand furnace heat, for ironworkers, etc. He arrived at the works last night in a car, and, after consulting with the manager, they kept a lot of us at work all night on a new design of spectacles.
“I was sent with this parcel in the early hours of the morning. There was no passenger train, but Mr. Garnesk got me a military pass on a fish train, and here I am. I was to deliver the parcel to Mr. Ewart, or, failing him, to Miss McLeod. When I saw this lady with the—er—the shade over her eyes I thought you were probably Mr. Ewart, sir.”
“I’m not, as a matter of fact,” said Dennis. “But where have you come from, and why didn’t you come up the path?”
“Mr. Garnesk gave me instructions, sir, which I read to the boatman who brought me here. Mr. Garnesk said I would find several fishermen at Mallaig who had motor-boats, and would bring me across. He also gave me this paper, and told me on no account to deviate from the directions he gave.”
Dennis held out his hand for the paper. He glanced through it, and then read it to Myra.
“Take a motor-boat from Mallaig to Invermalluch Lodge,” he read. “Tell the man to cross the top of Loch Hourn as if he were going to Glenelg, but when he gets well round the point he is to double back, and land you as near as he can to the house, but to keep on the far side of the point. You are on no account to be taken to the landing-stage at the lodge. When you arrive at the lodge insist on seeing Mr. Ewart, or Miss McLeod personally, if Mr. Ewart is not there. Then rejoin your motor-boat, and go on to Glenelg. Wait there for the first boat that will take you to Mallaig, and come back by the train. Do not return to Mallaig by motor-boat.”
“Those are very elaborate instructions, Mr. Burnham,” said Myra.“It would seem that Mr. Garnesk is very suspicious about something.”
“Evidently,” Dennis agreed. “You’d better let Miss McLeod have that parcel,” he added to McKenzie. The youth handed him the parcel, and at Myra’s suggestion Dennis opened it. Topmost among its contents was a letter addressed to me. Dennis tore it open and read it.
“Miss McLeod is to wear a pair of these glasses until I see her again. She will be able to see through them fairly well, but she must not remove them. The consequences might be fatal. The three other pairs are for you and Burnham, and one extra in case of accidents. It will also come in handy if you take Hilderman into your confidence. Wear these glasses when you are in any danger of coming in contact with the green ray. I have an idea that they will act as a decided protection. I also enclose one Colt automatic pistol and cartridges, the only one I could get in the middle of the night. If you decide to ask Hilderman’s help tell him everything. I am sure he will be very useful to you. Keep your courage up, old man! The best to you all. In haste.—H.G.”
“We’re certainly learning something,” said Dennis, as he finished.“Obviously Garnesk is very suspicious of somebody, but it’s not Hilderman. He writes as if he were pretty sure of himself. Probably he has proved his theory about Hilderman being a Government detective.”
“I have a message for Mr. Ewart, sir,” the messenger interrupted.
“You had better tell it me,” Dennis suggested.
“I’d rather Miss McLeod asked me,” McKenzie demurred. “Those were Mr. Garnesk’s instructions. He said ‘failing Mr. Ewart, insist on seeing Miss McLeod.’”
“Very well,” laughed Myra. “I quite appreciate your point. May I know the message?”
“Mr. Ewart was to take no notice whatever of anything Mr. Garnesk said in his letter about Mr. Hilderman. He was on no account to trust Mr. Hilderman, but to be very careful not to let him see he was suspected. The gentlemen were always to wear their glasses whenever they were in sight of the hut above—Glas.—above Mr. Hilderman’s house.”
“Whew!” Dennis whistled. “But why didn’t he——? Oh, I see. He was afraid the letter might fall into Hilderman’s hands.”
“I wonder where Ron can have got to?” Myra mused wistfully.
“We’re very much obliged to you for all the trouble you have taken, Mr. McKenzie,” said Dennis. “You’ve done very well indeed.”
“Oh, Mr. Garnesk also said that Miss McLeod was to put on her glasses by the red light.”
“Yes; that’s important,” Dennis agreed. “We’ll go up to the house now, shall we, Miss McLeod?”
“Yes,” said Myra, “and Mr. McKenzie must come and have a meal and a rest, as I’m sure he needs both after his journey. I’ll send Angus to look after the boatman.” So the three strolled up to the lodge.
“By the way,” said Dennis, “of course it’s all right, and you’ve carried out your instructions to the letter, but how can you be sure this is Miss McLeod, and how do you know I’m not Hilderman?”
“Mr. Garnesk described everybody I should be likely to meet,” McKenzie replied, “including Mr. Hilderman and Mr. Fuller. I know you are Mr. Ewart’s friend because you have a small white scar above your left eyebrow. So, being with you, and wearing a shade and an Indian bangle, I thought I was safe in concluding the lady was Miss McLeod.”
“Garnesk doesn’t seem to miss much!” Dennis laughed.
“He made me repeat his descriptions about twenty times,” said McKenzie, “so I felt pretty sure of myself.”
When they got up to the lodge, and the messenger’s requirements had been administered to, Dennis unpacked the parcel. The spectacles proved to be something like motor goggles; they fitted closely over the nose and forehead, and entirely excluded all light exceptthat which could be seen through the glass. The only curious thing about them was the glass itself. Instead of being white, or even blue, it was red, and the surface was scratched diagonally in minute parallel lines. Myra and Dennis hurried upstairs, and lighted the lamp in the dark-room. When the girl came down again she declared that she could see beautifully. Everything was red, of course, but she could see quite distinctly.
“Have you any idea why these glasses are ruled in lines like this?” Dennis asked McKenzie.
“I couldn’t say for certain, sir,” the youth replied. “But I should think it was because Mr. Garnesk thought the glasses would be so near the eye as to be ineffective. In photography, for instance, you can’t print either bromide or printing-out paper in a red light. But if you coat a red glass with emulsion, and make an exposure on it, you can print the negative in the usual way. I don’t know why it is.”
“Perhaps there is no space for a ray to form,” Myra suggested.
“You must tell Mr. Garnesk how deeply grateful we all are to him,” said Dennis. “I’ll give you a letter to take back to him. It has been a wonderfully quick bit of work!”
“I should think he has got some hundreds of the glasses finished by this time,” said McKenzie, “and he has already asked for an estimate for fifty thousand of them.”
“Whatever for?” Myra exclaimed.
“I couldn’t say at all, but Mr. Garnesk probably has it all mapped out. He always knows what he’s about.”
A couple of hours later McKenzie left for Glenelg, with ample time to catch his boat, and the others sat down to lunch. Myra was delighted that she could see, even though everything was red. Just as they had finished lunch a telegram was delivered to Dennis. It was handed in at Mallaig, and it read: “Don’t worry about me. May be away for a few days.—Ewart.”
“Oh, good!” exclaimed Dennis. “A wire from Ron. He’s all right. ‘Don’t worry about me. May be away for a few days.’ Sent from Mallaig. He may have got something he feels he must tell Garnesk about, and has gone to Glasgow.”
“I expect that’s it,” Myra agreed. “I’m glad he’s wired. I do hope he’ll write from wherever he is to-night. Do you think I shall get a letter in the morning?”
“Certain to,” Dennis vowed, laying the telegram on the mantelpiece. “He’s sure to write, however busy he is.”
Though Myra was disappointed that there was no personal message for her, she tried to believe that everything was all right. Dennis went on what he called coastguard duty, and watched the sea and shores with the untiring loyalty of a faithful dog. That night, afterdinner, he went out to keep an eye on things, and left Myra with her father. She has told me since that she felt miserable that I had not wired to her, and went to fetch my telegram in order to get what comfort she could from my message to Dennis. She held the telegram under the light, and read it through. The words were: “May be away for a few days.—Ewart.” She made out the faint pencil writing slowly through the red glass. She read it twice through, and then suddenly collapsed into an armchair in the horror of swift realisation. “Ewart!” she whispered, “Ewart! He would never sign a telegram to Mr. Burnham in that way. If Ronnie didn’t send that wire, who did?”
In a moment she jumped to her feet. She must act, and act quickly.
She ran into the den, and picked up the revolver and cartridges which Garnesk had sent, and which she had put carefully away until I should come and claim them. She loaded the revolver, and tucked it in the pocket of the Burberry coat which she slipped on in the hall. Then she tore down to the landing-stage, and made straight for Glasnabinnie in theJenny Spinner. She had got about half a mile when Dennis, coming up to the top of the cliff on his self-imposed coastguard duties, saw her and recognised her through his binoculars.
He ran down to the landing-stage, putting on his red glasses as he went. His horror was complete when he found there was no craft of anykind about, not even a rowboat. Alas! I had idiotically allowed the dinghy to drift away. He ran along the shore, every now and then looking anxiously through his binoculars for any sign of any kind of boat that would get him over to Glasnabinnie in time to fulfil his promise of looking after “Ron’s little girl.”
Myra has since admitted—and how proud I was to hear her say it—that she forgot about everything and everybody except that I was in danger, and probably Hilderman knew something about it. Her one thought was to hold the pistol to his head and demand my safe return.
She came ashore a little beyond the house, having made a rather wide detour, so that she should not be seen. She knew the best way to the hut, and there was a light in it. She thought Hilderman would be there. She had passed well to seaward of theFiona, and noticed that she was standing by with steam up. Myra climbed the hill to the hut with as much speed as she could.
Hilderman was standing below the door of the smoking-room talking to three men. She knew that she would have no chance, even with a revolver, against four men. She might hurt one of them, but she recognised, fortunately, that the others would overpower her.
Eventually Hilderman went into the hut, and two of the men stayed outside talking. The other went down the hill. It was in watchingthis man that Myra saw the sight that had astonished me, the continuous stream of lights down the bed of the burn. She waited, so she said it seemed, for hours and hours, before she could see a real chance of attacking Hilderman.
Indeed, neither she nor Dennis can give any very clear idea precisely how long it was that she waited there, but it must have been a considerable time. At last Hilderman was alone. Myra crept to the edge of the little plateau on which the hut stood, and then made a dash for the door. She thrust it open and stepped inside, pulling it to behind her. Hilderman sprang to his feet with an oath as he saw her.
“Heavens!” he cried. “You!”
Myra drew the revolver and presented it at him.
“Put up your hands, Mr. Hilderman,” she said, with a calmness that astonished herself, “and tell me what you have done with Ronnie—Mr. Ewart.”
“I must admit you’ve caught me, Miss McLeod!” Hilderman replied. “I can only assure you that yourfiancéis safe.”
“Where is he?” Myra asked.
“He is quite close at hand,” Hilderman assured her, “and quite safe. What do you want me to do?”
“You must set him free at once,” said Myra quietly.
“And if I refuse?”
“I shall shoot you and anyone else who comes near me.”
“Now look here, Miss McLeod,” said Hilderman, “I may be prepared to come to terms with you. If you shot me and half a dozen others it would not help you to find Mr. Ewart. On the other hand, it would be awkward for us to have a lot of shooting going on, and I have no wish to harm Mr. Ewart. If I produce him, and allow you two to go away, are you prepared to swear to me that you will neither of you breathe a word of anything you may know to any living soul for forty-eight hours? I think I can trust you.”
Myra thought it over quickly.
“Yes,” she said, “if you will——”
But she never finished the sentence. At that moment someone caught her wrist in a grip of steel, and wrenched the pistol from her.
“Come, come, Miss McLeod,” said Fuller, “This is very un-neighbourly of you.”
Myra looked round her in despair. There must be some way out of this. She cudgelled her brains to devise some means of getting the better of her captives. Fuller laid the pistol on the table and sat down.
“You need not be alarmed,” he said.“We shall not hurt you. You will be left here, that is all. And we shall get safely away. After this we shall not be able to leave your precious lover with you, but Hilderman insists that he shall not be hurt, and we shall take him to Germany and treat him as a prisoner of war.”
Then Myra had an inspiration. She turned her head towards Fuller, as if she were looking about two feet to the right of his head.
“You may as well kill me as leave me here,” she said calmly.
“Nonsense,” said Hilderman. “If we leave you here, and see that you have no means of getting away by sea, you will have to find your way across the hills or round the cliffs. There is no road, and by the time you return to civilisation we shall be clear.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Myra. “You bargain on my falling over a precipice or something. A blind girl would have a splendid chance of getting back safely!”
“Good heavens!” Hilderman cried. “I thought you must be able to see. Fuller, this means that that fellow Burnham came with her, and is close at hand. What in the name——”
But he, too, was interrupted, for a great, gaunt figure flashed like some weird animal through the window. A long bare arm reached over Fuller’s shoulder and snatched the pistol.
“Yes, Mr. Burnham is with her,” said Dennis quietly, as he stood in front of them, stripped to the waist, the water pouring off him in streams, and covered them with the revolver.