Lang Andrew
The Disentanglers
They dined at the usual hour, and not long after dinner Lady Bude said good-night, while her lord, who was very tired, soon followed her example. Merton and the millionaire paid a visit to Blake, whom they found asleep, and the doctor, having taken supper and accepted an invitation to stay all night, joined the two other men in the smoking-room. In answer to inquiries about the patient, Dr. MacTavish said, ‘It’s jist concussion, slight concussion, and nervous shoke. No that muckle the maiter wi’ him but a clour on the hairnspan, and midge bites, forbye the disagreeableness o’ being clamped doon for a wheen hours in a wat tussock o’ bracken.’
This diagnosis, though not perfectly intelligible to Merton, seemed to reassure Mr. Macrae.
‘He’s a bit concetty, the chiel,’ added the worthy physician, ‘and it may be a day or twa or he judges he can leave his bed. Jist nervous collapse. But, bless my soul, what’s thon?’
‘Thon’ had brought Mr. Macrae to his feet with a bound. It was the thrill of the electric bell which preluded to communications from the wireless communicator! The instrument began to tick, and to emit its inscribed tape.
‘Thank heaven,’ cried the millionaire, ‘now we shall have light on this mystery.’ He read the message, stamped his foot with an awful execration, and then, recovering himself, handed the document to Merton. ‘The message is a disgusting practical joke,’ he said. ‘Some one at the central agency is playing tricks with the instrument.’
‘Am I to read the message aloud?’ asked Merton.
It was rather a difficult question, for the doctor was a perfect stranger to all present, and the matters involved were of an intimate delicacy, affecting the most sacred domestic relations.
‘Dr. MacTavish,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘speaking as Highlander to Highlander, these are circumstances, are they not, under the seal of professional confidence?’
The big doctor rose to his feet.
‘They are, sir, but, Mr. Macrae, I am a married man. This sad business of yours, I say it with sorrow, will be the talk of the world to-morrow, as it is of the country side to-day. If you will excuse me, I would rather know nothing, and be able to tell nothing, so I’ll take my pipe outside with me.’
‘Not alone, don’t go alone, Dr. MacTavish,’ said Merton; ‘Mr. Macrae will need his telegraphic operator probably. Let me play you a hundred up at billiards.’
The doctor liked nothing better; soon the balls were rattling, while the millionaire was closeted alone with Donald Macdonald and the wireless thing.
After one game, of which he was the winner, the doctor, with much delicacy, asked leave to go to bed. Merton conducted him to his room, and, returning, was hailed by Mr. Macrae.
‘Here is the pleasant result of our communications,’ he said, reading aloud the message which he had first received.
‘The Seven Hunters. August 9, 7.47 p.m.
‘Do not be anxious about Miss Macrae. She is in perfect health, and accompanied by three chaperons accustomed to move in the first circles. The one question is How Much? Sorry to be abrupt, but the sooner the affair is satisfactorily concluded the better. A reply through your Gianesi machine will reach us, and will meet with prompt attention.’
‘A practical joke,’ said Merton. ‘The melancholy news has reached town through Bude’s telegrams, and somebody at the depôt is playing tricks with the instrument.’
‘I have used the instrument to communicate that opinion to the manufacturers,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘but I have had no reply.’
‘What does the jester mean by heading his communication “The Seven Hunters”?’ asked Merton.
‘The name of a real or imaginary public-house, I suppose,’ said Mr. Macrae.
At this moment the electric bell gave its signal, and the tape began to exude. Mr. Macrae read the message aloud; it ran thus:
‘No good wiring to Gianesi and Giambresi at headquarters. You are hitched on to us, and to nobody else. Better climb down. What are your terms?’
‘This is infuriating,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘It must be a practical joke, but how to reach the operators?’
‘Let me wire to-morrow by the old-fashioned way,’ said Merton; ‘I hear that one need not go to Lairg to wire. One can do that from Inchnadampf, much nearer. That is quicker than steaming to Loch Inver.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr. Merton; I must be here myself. You had better take the motor – trouble dazes a man – I forgot the motor when I ordered the tandem this morning.’
‘Very good,’ said Merton. ‘At what hour shall I start?’
‘We all need rest; let us say at ten o’clock.’
‘All right,’ replied Merton. ‘Now do, pray, try to get a good night of sleep.’
Mr. Macrae smiled wanly: ‘I mean to force myself to read Emma, by Miss Austen, till the desired effect is produced.’
Merton went to bed, marvelling at the self-command of the millionaire. He himself slept ill, absorbed in regret and darkling conjecture.
After writing out several telegrams for Merton to carry, the smitten victim of enormous opulence sought repose. But how vainly! Between him and the pages which report the prosings of Miss Bates and Mr. Woodhouse intruded visions of his daughter, a captive, perhaps crossing the Atlantic, perhaps hidden, who knew, in a shieling or a cavern in the untrodden wastes of Assynt or of Lord Reay’s country. At last these appearances were merged in sleep.
III. Logan to the Rescue!
As Merton sped on the motor next day to the nearest telegraph station, with Mr. Macrae’s sheaf of despatches, Dr. MacTavish found him a very dull companion. He named the lochs and hills, Quinag, Suilvean, Ben Mór, he dwelt on the merits of the trout in the lochs; he showed the melancholy improvements of the old Duke; he spoke of duchesses and of crofters, of anglers and tourists; he pointed to the ruined castle of the man who sold the great Montrose – or did not sell him. Merton was irresponsive, trying to think. What was this mystery? Why did the wireless machine bring no response from its headquarters; or how could practical jokers have intruded into the secret chambers of Messrs. Gianesi and Giambresi? These dreams or visions of his own on the night before Miss Macrae was taken – were they wholly due to tobacco and the liver?
‘I thought I was awake,’ said Merton to himself, ‘when I was only dreaming about the crimson blot on the ceiling. Was I asleep when I saw the tartans go down the stairs? I used to walk in my sleep as a boy. It is very queer!’
‘Frae the top o’ Ben Mór,’ the doctor was saying, ‘on a fine day, they tell me, with a glass you can pick up “The Seven Hunters.”’
‘Eh, what? I beg your pardon, I am so confused by this wretched affair. What did you say you can pick up?’
‘Just “The Seven Hunters,”’ said the doctor rather sulkily.
‘And what are “The Seven Hunters”?’
‘Just seven wee sma’ islandies ahint the Butt of Lewis. The maps ca’ them the Flanan Islands.’
Merton’s heart gave a thump. The first message from the Gianesi invention was dated ‘The Seven Hunters.’ Here was a clue.
‘Are the islands inhabited?’ asked Merton.
‘Just wi’ wild goats, and, maybe, fishers drying their fish. And three men in a lighthouse on one of them,’ said the doctor.
They now rushed up to the hotel and telegraph office of Inchnadampf. The doctor, after visiting the bar, went on in the motor to Lairg; it was to return for Merton, who had business enough on hand in sending the despatches. He was thinking over ‘The Seven Hunters.’ It might be, probably was, a blind, or the kidnappers, having touched there, might have departed in any direction – to Iceland, for what he knew. But the name, ‘the Seven Hunters,’ was not likely to have been invented by a practical joker in London. If not, the conspirators had really captured and kept to themselves Mr. Macrae’s line of wireless communications. How could that have been done? Merton bitterly regretted that his general information did not include electrical science.
However, he had first to send the despatches. In one Mr. Macrae informed Gianesi and Giambresi of the condition of their instrument, and bade them send another at once with a skilled operator, and to look out for probable tamperers in their own establishment. This despatch was in a cypher which before he got the new invention, and while he used the old wires, Mr. Macrae had arranged with the electricians. The words of the despatch were, therefore, peculiar, and the Highland lass who operated, a girl of great beauty and modesty, at first declined to transmit the message.
‘It’s maybe no proper, for a’ that I ken,’ she urged, and only by invoking a local person of authority, and using the name of Mr. Macrae very freely, could Merton obtain the transmission of the despatch.
In another document Mr. Macrae ordered ‘more motors’ and a dozen bicycles, as the Nabob of old ordered ‘more curricles.’ He also telegraphed to the Home Office, the Admiralty, the Hereditary Lord High Admiral of the West Coast, to Messrs. McBrain, of the steamers, and to every one who might have any access to the control of marine police or information. He wired to the police at New York, bidding them warn all American stations, and to the leading New York newspapers, knowing the energy and inquiring, if imaginative, character of their reporters. Bude ought to have done all this on the previous day, but Bude’s ideas were limited. Nothing, however, was lost, as America is not reached in forty-eight hours. The millionaire instructed Scotland Yard to warn all foreign ports, and left them carte-blanche as to the offer of a reward for the discovery of his missing daughter. He also put off all the guests whom he had been expecting at Castle Skrae.
Merton was amazed at the energy and intelligence of a paternal mind smitten by sudden grief. Mr. Macrae had even telegraphed to every London newspaper, and to the leading Scottish and provincial journals, ‘No Interviewers need Apply.’ Several hours were spent, as may be imagined, in getting off these despatches from a Highland rural office, and Merton tried to reward the fair operator. But she declined to accept a present for doing her duty, and expressed lively sympathy for the poor young lady who was lost. In a few days a diamond-studded watch and chain arrived for Miss MacTurk.
Merton himself wired to Logan, imploring him, in the name of friendship, to abandon all engagements, and come to Inchnadampf. Where kidnapping was concerned he knew that Logan must be interested, and might be useful; but, of course, he could not invite him to Castle Skrae. Meanwhile he secured rooms for Logan at the excellent inn. Lady Fastcastle, he knew, was in England, brooding over her first-born, the Master of Fastcastle.
Before these duties were performed the motor returned from Lairg, bearing the two London detectives, one disguised as a gillie (he was the detective who had the Gaelic), the other as a clergyman of the Church of England. To Merton he whispered that he was to be an early friend of Mr. Macrae, come to comfort him on the first news of his disaster. As to the other, the gillie, Mr. Macrae was known to have been in want of an assistant to the stalker, and Duncan Mackay (of Scotland Yard) had accepted the situation. Merton approved of these arrangements; they were such as he would himself have suggested.
‘But I don’t see what we can do, sir,’ said the clerical detective (the Rev. Mr. Williams), ‘except perhaps find out if it was a put up thing from within.’
Merton gave him a succinct sketch of the events, and he could see that Mr. Williams already suspected Donald Macdonald, the engineer. Merton, Mr. Williams, and the driver now got into the motor, and were followed by the gillie-detective and a man to drive in a dog-cart hired from the inn. Merton ordered all answers to telegrams to be sent by boys on bicycles.
It was late ere he returned to Castle Skrae. There nothing of importance had occurred, except the arrival of more messages from the wireless machine. They insisted that Miss Macrae was in perfect health, but implored the millionaire to settle instantly, lest anxiety for a father’s grief should undermine her constitution.
Mr. Williams had a long interview with Mr. Macrae. It was arranged that he should read family prayers in the morning and evening. He left The Church Quarterly Review and numbers of The Expositor, The Guardian, and The Pilot in the hall with his great coat, and on the whole his entry was very well staged. Duncan Mackay occupied a room at the keeper’s, who had only eight children.
Mr. Williams asked if he might see Mr. Blake; he could impart religious consolation. Merton carried this message, in answer to which Blake, who was in bed very sulky and sleepy, merely replied, ‘Kick out the hell-hound.’
Merton was obliged to soften this rude message, saying that unfortunately Mr. Blake was of the older faith, though he had expressed no wish for the ministrations of Father McColl.
On hearing this Mr. Williams merely sighed, as the Budes were present. He had been informed as to their tenets, and had even expressed a desire to labour for their enlightenment, by way of giving local colour. He had, he said, some stirring Protestant tracts among his clerical properties. Mr. Macrae, however, had gently curbed this zeal, so on hearing of Blake’s religious beliefs the sigh of Mr. Williams was delicately subdued.
Dinner-time arrived. Blake did not appear; the butler said that he supported existence solely on dried toast and milk and soda-water. He was one of the people who keep a private clinical thermometer, and he sent the bulletin that his temperature was 103. He hoped to come downstairs to-morrow. Mr. Williams gave the party some news of the outer world. He had brought the Scotsman, and Mr. Macrae had the gloomy satisfaction of reading a wildly inaccurate report of his misfortune. Correct news had not reached the press, but deep sympathy was expressed. The melancholy party soon broke up, Mr. Williams conducting family prayers with much unction, after the Budes had withdrawn.
In a private interview with the millionaire Merton told him how he had discovered the real meaning of ‘The Seven Hunters,’ whence the first telegram of the kidnappers was dated. Neither man thought the circumstance very important.
‘They would hardly have ventured to name the islands if they had any idea of staying there,’ the millionaire said, ‘besides any heartless jester could find the name on a map.’
This was obvious, but as Lady Bude was much to be pitied, alone, in the circumstances, Mr. Macrae determined to send her and Bude on the yacht, the Flora Macdonald, to cruise round the Butt of Lewis and examine the islets. Both Bude and his wife were devoted to yachting, and the isles might yield something in the way of natural history.
Next day (Wednesday) the Budes steamed away, and there came many answers to the telegrams of Mr. Macrae, and one from Logan to Merton. Logan was hard by, cruising with his cousin, Admiral Chirnside, at the naval manœuvres on the northeast coast. He would come to Inchnadampf at once. Mr. Macrae heard from Gianesi and Giambresi. Gianesi himself was coming with a fresh machine. Mr. Macrae wished it had been Giambresi, whom he knew; Gianesi he had never met. Condolences, of course, poured in from all quarters, even the most exalted. The Emperor of Germany was most sympathetic. But there was no news of importance. Several yachting parties had been suspected and examined; three young ladies at Oban, Applecross, and Tobermory, had established their identity and proved that they were not Miss Macrae.
All day the wireless machine was silent. Mr. Williams was shown all the rooms in the castle, and met Blake, who appeared at luncheon. Blake was most civil. He asked for a private interview with Mr. Macrae, who inquired whether his school friend, Mr. Williams, might share it? Blake was pleased to give them both all the information he had, though his head, he admitted, still rang with the cowardly blow that had stunned him. He was told of the discovery of the burned boat, and was asked whether it had approached from east or west, from the side of the Atlantic, or from the head of the sea loch.
‘From Kinlocharty,’ he said, ‘from the head of the loch, the landward side.’ This agreed with the evidence of the villagers on the other side of the sea loch.
Would he recognise the crew? He had only seen them at a certain distance, when they landed, but in spite of the blow on his head he remembered the black beard of one man, and the red beard of another. To be sure they might shave off their beards, yet these two he thought he could identify. Speaking to Miss Macrae as the men passed them, he had called one Donald Dubh, or ‘black,’ and the other Donald Ban, or ‘fair.’ They carried heavy shepherds’ crooks in their hands. Their dress was Lowland, but they wore unusually broad bonnets of the old sort, drooping over the eyes. Blake knew no more, except his anguish from the midges.
He expressed his hope to be well enough to go away on Friday; he would retire to the inn at Scourie, and try to persevere with his literary work. Mr. Macrae would not hear of this; as, if the miscreants were captured, Blake alone could have a chance of identifying them. To this Blake replied that, as long as Mr. Macrae thought that he might be useful, he was at his service.
To Merton, Blake displayed himself in a new light. He said that he remembered little of what occurred after he was found at the foot of the cliff. Probably he was snappish and selfish; he was suffering very much. His head, indeed, was still bound up, and his face showed how he had suffered. Merton shook hands with him, and said that he hoped Blake would forget his own behaviour, for which he was sincerely sorry.
‘Oh, the chaff?’ said Blake. ‘Never mind, I dare say I played the fool. I have been thinking, when my brain would give me leave, as I lay in bed. Merton, you are a trifle my senior, and you know the world much better. I have lived in a writing and painting set, where we talked nonsense till it went to our heads, and we half believed it. And, to tell you the truth, the presence of women always sets me off. I am a humbug; I do not know Gaelic, but I mean to work away at my drama for all that. This kind of shock against the realities of life sobers a fellow.’
Blake spoke simply, in an unaffected, manly way.
‘Semel in saninivimus omnes!’ said Merton.
‘Nec lusisse pudet!’ said Blake, ‘and the rest of it. I know there’s a parallel in the Greek Anthology, somewhere. I’ll go and get my copy.’
He went into the observatory (they had been sitting on a garden seat outside), and Merton thought to himself:
‘He is not such a bad fellow. Not many of your young poets know anything but French.’
Blake seemed to have some difficulty in finding his Anthology. At last he came out with rather a ‘carried’ look, as the Scots say, rather excited.
‘Here it is,’ he said, and handed Merton the little volume, of a Tauchnitz edition, open at the right page. Merton read the epigram. ‘Very neat and good,’ he said.
‘Now, Merton,’ said Blake, ‘it is not usual, is it, for ministers of the Anglican sect to play the spy?’
‘What in the world do you mean?’ asked Merton. ‘Oh, I guess, the Rev. Mr. Williams! Were you not told that his cure of souls is in Scotland Yard? I ought to have told you, I thought our host would have done so. What was the holy man doing?’
‘I was not told,’ said Blake, ‘I suppose Mr. Macrae was too busy. So I was rather surprised, when I went into my room for my book, to find the clergyman examining my things and taking books out of one of my book boxes.’
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Merton. ‘What did you do?’
‘I locked the door of the room, and handed Mr. Williams the key of my despatch box. “I have a few private trifles there,” I said, “the key may save you trouble.” Then I sat down and wrote a note to Mr. Macrae, and rang the bell and asked the servant to carry the note to his master. Mr. Macrae came, and I explained the situation and asked him to be kind enough to order the motor, if he could spare it, or anything to carry me to the nearest inn.’
‘I shall order it, Mr. Blake,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘but it will be to remove this person, whom I especially forbade to molest any of my guests. I don’t know how I forgot to tell you who he is, a detective; the others were told.’
‘He confounded himself in excuses; it was horribly awkward.’
‘Horribly!’ said Merton.
‘He rated the man for visiting his guests’ rooms without his knowledge. I dare say the parson has turned over all your things.’
Merton blenched. He had some of the correspondence of the Disentanglers with him, rather private matter, naturally.
‘He had not the key of my despatch box,’ said Merton.
‘He could open it with a quill, I believe,’ said Blake. ‘They do – in novels.’
Merton felt very uneasy. ‘What was the end of it?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I said that if the man was within his duty the accident was only one of those which so singular a misfortune brings with it. I would stay while Mr. Macrae wanted me. I handed over my keys, and insisted that all my luggage and drawers and things should be examined. But Mr. Macrae would not listen to me, and forbade the fellow to enter any of – the bedrooms.’
‘Begad, I’ll go and look at my own despatch box,’ said Merton.
‘I shall sit in the shade,’ said Blake.
Merton did examine his box, but could not see that any of the papers had been disarranged. Still, as the receptacle was full of family secrets he did not feel precisely comfortable. Going out on the lawn he met Mr. Macrae, who took him into a retired place and told him what had occurred.
‘I had given the man the strictest orders not to invade the rooms of any of my guests,’ he said; ‘it is too odious.’
The Rev. Mr. Williams being indisposed, dined alone in his room that night; so did Blake, who was still far from well.
The only other incident was that Donald Macdonald and the new gillie, Duncan Mackay, were reported to be ‘lying around in a frightfully dissolute state.’ Donald was a sober man, but Mackay, he explained next morning, proved to be his long lost cousin, hence the revel. Mackay, separately, stated that he had made Donald intoxicated for the purpose of eliciting any guilty secret which he might possess. But whisky had elicited nothing.
On the whole the London detectives had not been entirely a success. Mr. Macrae therefore arranged to send both of them back to Lairg, where they would strike the line, and return to the metropolis.
Merton had casually talked of Logan (Lord Fastcastle) to Mr. Macrae on the previous evening, and mentioned that he was now likely to be at Inchnadampf. Mr. Macrae knew something of Logan, and before he sped the parting detectives, asked Merton whether he thought that he might send a note to Inchnadampf inviting his friend to come and bear him company? Merton gravely said that in such a crisis as theirs he thought that Logan would be extremely helpful, and that he was a friend of the Budes. Perhaps he himself had better go and pick up Logan and inform him fully as to the mysterious events? As Mr. Gianesi was also expected from London on that day (Thursday) to examine the wireless machine, which had been silent, Mr. Macrae sent off several vehicles, as well as the motor that carried the detectives. Merton drove the tandem himself.
Merton found Logan, with his Spanish bull-dog, Bouncer, loafing outside the hotel door at Inchnadampf. He greeted Merton in a state of suppressed glee; the whole adventure was much to the taste of the scion of Rostalrig. Merton handed him Mr. Macrae’s letter of invitation.
‘Come, won’t I come, rather!’ said Logan.
‘Of course we must wait to rest the horses,’ said Merton. ‘The motor has gone on to Lairg, carrying two detectives who have made a pretty foozle of it, and it will bring back an electrician.’
‘What for?’ asked Logan.
‘I must tell you the whole story,’ said Merton. ‘Let us walk a little way – too many gillies and people loafing about here.’
They walked up the road and sat down by little Loch Awe, the lochan on the way to Alt-na-gealgach. Merton told all the tale, beginning with his curious experiences on the night before the disappearance of Miss Macrae, and ending with the dismissal of the detectives. He also confided to Logan the importance of the matter to himself, and entreated him to be serious.
Logan listened very attentively.
When Merton had ended, Logan said, ‘Old boy, you were the making of me: you may trust me. Serious it is. A great deal of capital must have been put into this business.’
‘A sprat to catch a whale,’ said Merton. ‘You mean about nobbling the electric machine? How could that be done?’
‘That – and other things. I don’t know how the machine was nobbled, but it could not be done cheap. Would you mind telling me your dreams again?’
Merton repeated the story.
Logan was silent.
‘Do you see your way?’ asked Merton.
‘I must have time to think it out,’ said Logan. ‘It is rather mixed. When was Bude to return from his cruise to “The Seven Hunters”?’
‘Perhaps to-night,’ said Merton. ‘We cannot be sure. She is a very swift yacht, the Flora Macdonald.’
‘I’ll think it all over, Bude may give us a tip.’
No more would Logan say, beyond asking questions, which Merton could not answer, about the transatlantic past of the vanished heiress.
They loitered back towards the hotel and lunched. The room was almost empty, all the guests of the place were out fishing. Presently the motor returned from Lairg, bringing Mr. Gianesi and a large box of his electrical appliances. Merton rapidly told him all that he did not already know through Mr. Macrae’s telegrams. He was a reserved man, rather young, and beyond thanking Merton, said little, but pushed on towards Castle Skrae in the motor. ‘Some other motors,’ he said, ‘had arrived, and were being detained at Lairg.’ They came later.
Merton and Logan followed in the tandem, Logan driving; they had handed to Gianesi a sheaf of telegrams for the millionaire. As to the objects of interest on the now familiar road, Merton enlightened Logan, who seemed as absent-minded as Merton had been, when instructed by Dr. MacTavish. As they approached the Castle, Merton observed, from a height, the Flora Macdonald steaming into the sea loch.
‘Let us drive straight down to the cove and meet them,’ he said.
They arrived at the cove just as the boat from the yacht touched the shore. The Budes were astonished and delighted to see their old friend, Logan, and his dog, Bouncer, a tawny black muzzled, bow-legged hero, was admired by Lady Bude.
Merton rapidly explained. ‘Now, what tidings?’ he asked.
The party walked aside on the shore, and Bude swiftly narrated what he had discovered.
‘They have been there,’ he said. ‘We drew six of the islets blank, including the islet of the lighthouse. The men there had seen a large yacht, two ladies and a gentleman from it had visited them. They knew no more. Desert places, the other isles are, full of birds. On the seventh isle we found some Highland fishermen from the Lewis in a great state of excitement. They had only landed an hour before to pick up some fish they had left to dry on the rocks. They had no English, but one of our crew had the Gaelic, and interpreted in Scots. Regular Gaels, they did not want to speak, but I offered money, gold, let them see it. Then they took us to a cave. Do you know Mackinnon’s cave in Mull, opposite Iona?’
‘Yes, drive on!’ said Merton, much interested.
‘Well, inside it was pitched an empty corrugated iron house, quite new, and another, on the further side, outside the cave.’
‘I picked up this in the interior of the cave,’ said Lady Bude.
‘This’ was a golden hair-pin of peculiar make.
‘That’s the kind of hair-pin she wears,’ said Lady Bude.
‘By Jove!’ said Merton and Logan in one voice.
‘But that was all,’ said Bude. ‘There was no other trace, except that plainly people had been coming and going, and living there. They had left some empty bottles, and two intact champagne bottles. We tasted it, it was excellent! The Lewis men, who had not heard of the affair, could tell nothing more, except, what is absurd, that they had lately seen a dragon flying far off over the sea. A dragon volant, did you ever hear such nonsense? The interpreter pronounced it “draigon.” He had not too much English himself.’
‘The Highlanders are so delightfully superstitious,’ said Lady Bude.
Logan opened his lips to speak, but said nothing.
‘I don’t think we should keep Mr. Macrae waiting,’ said Lady Bude.
‘If Bude will take the reins,’ said Merton, ‘you and he can be at the Castle in no time. We shall walk.’
‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Logan. ‘A word with you, Bude.’
He took Bude aside, uttered a few rapid sentences, and then helped Lady Bude into the tandem. Bude followed, and drove away.
‘Is your secret to be kept from me?’ asked Merton.
‘Well, old boy, you never told me the mystery of the Emu’s feathers! Secret for secret, out with it; how did the feathers help you, if they did help you, to find out my uncle, the Marquis? Gifgaff, as we say in Berwickshire. Out with your feathers! and I’ll produce my dragon volant, tail and all.’
Merton was horrified. The secret of the Emu’s feathers involved the father of Lady Fastcastle, of his old friend’s wife, in a very distasteful way. Logan, since his marriage, had never shown any curiosity in the matter. His was a joyous nature; no one was less of a self-tormentor.
‘Well, old fellow,’ said Merton, ‘keep your dragon, and I’ll keep my Emu.’
‘I won’t keep him long, I assure you,’ said Logan. ‘Only for a day or two, I dare say; then you’ll know; sooner perhaps. But, for excellent reasons, I asked Bude and Lady Bude to say nothing about the hallucination of these second-sighted Highland fishers. I have a plan. I think we shall run in the kidnappers; keep your pecker up. You shall be in it!’
With this promise, and with Logan’s jovial confidence (he kept breaking into laughter as he went) Merton had to be satisfied, though in no humour for laughing.
‘I’m working up to my dénouement.’ Logan said. ‘Tremendously dramatic! You shall be on all through; I am keeping the fat for you, Merton. It is no bad thing for a young man to render the highest possible services to a generous millionaire, especially in the circumstances.’
