The Mystery of the Green Ray. Le Queux William
some reason for it. I was frightfully pleased. I like you to be a splendid fellow, Ron!”
I was very glad to hear that the old General was really pleased to hear of my visit. I had intended to stay at the Glenelg Hotel, as I could hardly invite myself to Invermalluch Lodge, even though I had known the old man all my life. Accordingly I took it as a definite sign that his opposition was wearing down when Myra told me I was expected at the house.
“And he said,” she continued, “that he never heard such ridiculous nonsense as your saying you were coming to the hotel, and that if you preferred a common inn to the house that had been good enough for him and his fathers before him, you could stop away altogether. So there!”
“Good – that’s great!” I said enthusiastically. “But did you come over by the boat from Glenelg, or what?”
“No, dear; I came in the motor-boat, so we don’t need to hang about the pier here. We can either go straight home or wait a bit, whichever you like. I wanted to meet you, and I thought you’d rather come back with me in the motor-boat than jolt about in the stuffy old Sheila.”
“Rather, dear; I should say I would,” said I – and a lot more besides, which has nothing to do with the story. Suddenly Myra’s motherly instinct awoke.
“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.
“Yes, dear – at Crianlarich. The only decent meal to be got on a railway in this country is a Crianlarich breakfast.”
“Well, in that case you’re ready for lunch. It’s gone twelve. I could do with something myself, incidentally, and I want to talk to you before we start for home. Let’s have lunch here.”
I readily agreed, and after calling Sholto, who was being conducted on a tour of inspection by the parson’s dog, we strolled up the hill to the hotel. As we entered the long dining-room we came upon Hilderman, seated at one of the tables with his back to us.
“Yes,” he was saying to the waiter, “I have been spending the week-end on the Clyde in a yacht. I joined the train at Ardlui this morning, and I can tell you – ”
I didn’t wait to hear any more. Rather by instinct than as a result of any definite train of thought, I led Myra quickly behind a Japanese screen to a small table by a side window. After all, it was no business of mine if Hilderman wished to say he had joined the train at Ardlui. He probably had his own reasons. Possibly Dennis was right, and the man was a detective. But I had seen him at King’s Cross and again at Edinburgh before we reached Ardlui, so I thought it might embarrass him if I walked in on the top of his assertion that he had just come from the Clyde. However, Myra was with me, which was much more important, and I dismissed Hilderman and his little fib from my mind.
“Ronnie,” said Myra, in the middle of lunch, “you haven’t said anything about the war.”
“No, dear,” I answered clumsily. “It – ” It was an astonishingly difficult thing to say when it came to saying it.
“And yet that was what you came to see me about?”
“Yes, darling. You see, I – ”
“I know, dear. You’ve come to tell me that you’re going to enlist. I’m glad, Ronnie, very glad – and very, very proud.”
Myra turned away and looked out of the window.
“I hate people who talk a lot about their duty,” I said; “but it obviously is my duty, and I know that’s what you would want me to do.”
“Of course, dear, I wouldn’t have you do anything else.” And she turned and smiled at me, though there were tears in her dear eyes. “And I shall try to be brave, very brave, Ronnie. I’m getting a big girl now,” she added pluckily, attempting a little laugh. And though, of course, we afterwards discussed the regiment I was to join, and how the uniform would suit me, and how you kept your buttons clean, and a thousand other things, that was the last that was said about it from that point of view. There are some people who never need to say certain things – or at any rate there are some things that never need be said between certain people.
After lunch we strolled round the “fish-table,” a sort of subsidiary pier on which the fish are auctioned, and listened to the excited conversations of the fish-curers, gutters, and fishermen. It was a veritable babel – the mournful intonation of the East Coast, the broad guttural of the Broomielaw, mingled with the shrill Gaelic scream of the Highlands, and the occasional twang of the cockney tourist. Having retrieved Sholto, who was inspecting some fish which had been laid out to dry in the middle of the village street, and packed him safely in the bows, we set out to sea, Myra at the engine, while I took the tiller. As we glided out of the harbour I turned round, impelled by some unknown instinct. The parson’s dog was standing at the head of the main pier, seeing us safely off the premises, and beside him was the tall figure of my friend J. G. Hilderman. As I looked up at him I wondered if he recognised me; but it was evident he did, for he raised his cap and waved to me. I returned the compliment as well as I could, for just then Myra turned and implored me not to run into the lighthouse.
“Someone you know?” she asked, as I righted our course.
“Only a chap I met on the train,” I explained.
“It looks like the tenant of Glasnabinnie, but I couldn’t be certain. I’ve never met him, and I’ve only seen him once.”
“Glasnabinnie!” I exclaimed, with a new interest. “Really! Why, that’s quite close to you, surely?”
“Just the other side of the loch, directly opposite us. A good swimmer could swim across, but a motor would take days to go round. So we’re really a long way off, and unless he turns up at some local function we’re not likely to meet him. He’s said to be an American millionaire; but then every American in these parts is supposed to have at least one million of money.”
“Do you know anything about him – what he does, or did?” I asked.
“Absolutely nothing,” she replied, “except, of course, the silly rumours that one always hears about strangers. He took Glasnabinnie in May – in fact, the last week of April, I believe. That rather surprised us, because it was very early for summer visitors. But he showed his good sense in doing so, as the country was looking gorgeous – Sgriol, na Ciche, and the Cuchulins under snow. I’ve heard (Angus McGeochan, one of our crofters, told me) he was an inventor, and had made a few odd millions out of a machine for sticking labels on canned meat. That and the fact that he is a very keen amateur photographer is the complete history of Mr. Hilderman so far as I know it. Anyway, he has a gorgeous view, hasn’t he? It’s nearly as good as ours.”
“He has indeed,” I agreed readily. “But I don’t think Hilderman can be very wealthy; no fishing goes with Glasnabinnie, there’s no yacht anchorage, and there’s no road to motor on. How does he get about?”
“He’s got a beautiful Wolseley launch,” said Myra jealously, “a perfect beauty. He calls her the Baltimore II. She was lying alongside the Hermione at Mallaig when we left. Oh! look up the loch, Ron! Isn’t it a wonderful view?”
And so the magnificent purple-gray summit of Sgor na Ciche, at the head of Loch Nevis, claimed our attention – (that and other matters of a personal nature) – and J. G. Hilderman went completely from our minds. Myra was a real Highlander of the West. She lived for its mountains and lochs, its rivers and burns, its magnificent coast and its fascinating animal life. She knew every little creek and inlet, every rock and shallow, every reef and current from Fort William to the Gair Loch. I have even heard it said that when she was twelve she could draw an accurate outline of Benbecula and North Uist, a feat that would be a great deal beyond the vast majority of grown-ups living on those islands themselves. As we turned to cross the head of Loch Hourn, Myra pointed out Glasnabinnie, nestling like a lump of grey lichen at the foot of the Croulin Burn. Anchored off the point was a small steam yacht, either a converted drifter or built on drifter lines.
“Our friend has visitors,” said Myra, “and he’s not there to receive them. How very rude! That yacht is often there. She only makes about eight knots as a rule, although she