The Mystery of the Green Ray

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 met Hilderman 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 the matter. 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 the mêlée of 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 mental précis of 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, when we 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.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE RED-HAIRED MAN

“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 the Fiona!”

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 the Fiona? You can lunch with me, and when you tire of our company I will run you across in the Baltimore. 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, with S.Y. Fiona worked in an arc of red wool across the chest. They were obviously good servants and useful hands, but there was none of that ridiculous imitation of naval custom and etiquette which delights the heart of the Cotton Exchange yacht-owner. We boarded the Fiona with 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 the suggestion. 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.”