The Collected Works of John Buchan (Illustrated). Buchan John
leave or arrive at the little platforms white in the moon. At Dalquharter the case of provisions was safely transferred to the porter with instructions to take charge of it till it was sent for. During the next few minutes Dickson’s mind began to work upon his problem with a certain briskness. It was all nonsense that the law of Scotland could not be summoned to the defence. The jewels had been safely got rid of, and who was to dispute their possession? Not Dobson and his crew, who had no sort of title, and were out for naked robbery. The girl had spoken of greater dangers from new enemies—kidnapping, perhaps. Well, that was felony, and the police must be brought in. Probably if all were known the three watchers had criminal records, pages long, filed at Scotland Yard. The man to deal with that side of the business was Loudon the factor, and to him he was bound in the first place. He had made a clear picture in his head of this Loudon—a derelict old country writer, formal, pedantic, lazy, anxious only to get an unprofitable business off his hands with the least possible trouble, never going near the place himself, and ably supported in his lethargy by conceited Edinburgh Writers to the Signet. “Sich notions of business!” he murmured. “I wonder that there’s a single county family in Scotland no’ in the bankruptcy court!” It was his mission to wake up Mr. James Loudon.
Arrived at Auchenlochan he went first to the Salutation Hotel, a pretentious place sacred to golfers. There he engaged a bedroom for the night and, having certain scruples, paid for it in advance. He also had some sandwiches prepared which he stowed in his pack, and filled his flask with whisky. “I’m going home to Glasgow by the first train in the to-morrow,” he told the landlady, “and now I’ve got to see a friend. I’ll not be back till late.” He was assured that there would be no difficulty about his admittance at any hour, and directed how to find Mr. Loudon’s dwelling.
It was an old house fronting direct on the street, with a fanlight above the door and a neat brass plate bearing the legend “Mr. James Loudon, Writer.” A lane ran up one side leading apparently to a garden, for the moonlight showed the dusk of trees. In front was the main street of Auchenlochan, now deserted save for a single roisterer, and opposite stood the ancient town house, with arches where the country folk came at the spring and autumn hiring fairs. Dickson rang the antiquated bell, and was presently admitted to a dark hall floored with oilcloth, where a single gas-jet showed that on one side was the business office and on the other the living-rooms. Mr. Loudon was at supper, he was told, and he sent in his card. Almost at once the door at the end on the left side was flung open and a large figure appeared flourishing a napkin. “Come in, sir, come in,” it cried. “I’ve just finished a bite of meat. Very glad to see you. Here, Maggie, what d’you mean by keeping the gentleman standing in that outer darkness?”
The room into which Dickson was ushered was small and bright, with a red paper on the walls, a fire burning, and a big oil lamp in the centre of a table. Clearly Mr. Loudon had no wife, for it was a bachelor’s den in every line of it. A cloth was laid on a corner of the table, in which stood the remnants of a meal. Mr. Loudon seemed to have been about to make a brew of punch, for a kettle simmered by the fire, and lemons and sugar flanked a pot-bellied whisky decanter of the type that used to be known as a “mason’s mell.”
The sight of the lawyer was a surprise to Dickson and dissipated his notions of an aged and lethargic incompetent. Mr. Loudon was a strongly built man who could not be a year over fifty. He had a ruddy face, clean shaven except for a grizzled moustache; his grizzled hair was thinning round the temples; but his skin was unwrinkled and his eyes had all the vigour of youth. His tweed suit was well cut, and the buff waistcoat with flaps and pockets and the plain leather watchguard hinted at the sportsman, as did the half-dozen racing prints on the wall. A pleasant high-coloured figure he made; his voice had the frank ring due to much use out of doors; and his expression had the singular candour which comes from grey eyes with large pupils and a narrow iris.
“Sit down, Mr. McCunn. Take the arm-chair by the fire. I’ve had a wire from Glendonan and Speirs about you. I was just going to have a glass of toddy—a grand thing for these uncertain April nights. You’ll join me? No? Well, you’ll smoke anyway. There’s cigars at your elbow. Certainly, a pipe if you like. This is Liberty Hall.”
Dickson found some difficulty in the part for which he had cast himself. He had expected to condescend upon an elderly inept and give him sharp instructions; instead he found himself faced with a jovial, virile figure which certainly did not suggest incompetence. It has been mentioned already that he had always great difficulty in looking any one in the face, and this difficulty was intensified when he found himself confronted with bold and candid eyes. He felt abashed and a little nervous.
“I’ve come to see you about Huntingtower House,” he began.
“I know, so Glendonans informed me. Well, I’m very glad to hear it. The place has been standing empty far too long, and that is worse for a new house than an old house. There’s not much money to spend on it either, unless we can make sure of a good tenant. How did you hear about it?”
“I was taking a bit holiday and I spent a night at Dalquharter with an old auntie of mine. You must understand I’ve just retired from business, and I’m thinking of finding a country place. I used to have the provision shop in Mearns Street—now the United Supply Stores, Limited. You’ve maybe heard of it?”
The other bowed and smiled. “Who hasn’t? The name of Dickson McCunn is known far beyond the city of Glasgow.”
Dickson was not insensible of the flattery, and he continued with more freedom. “I took a walk and got a glisk of the House, and I liked the look of it. You see, I want a quiet bit a good long way from a town, and at the same time a house with all modern conveniences. I suppose Huntingtower has that?”
“When it was built fifteen years ago it was considered a model—six bathrooms, its own electric light plant, steam heating, and independent boiler for hot water, the whole bag of tricks. I won’t say but what some of these contrivances will want looking to, for the place has been some time empty, but there can be nothing very far wrong, and I can guarantee that the bones of the house are good.”
“Well, that’s all right,” said Dickson. “I don’t mind spending a little money myself if the place suits me. But of that, of course, I’m not yet certain, for I’ve only had a glimpse of the outside. I wanted to get into the policies, but a man at the lodge wouldn’t let me. They’re a mighty uncivil lot down there.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Loudon in a tone of concern.
“Ay, and if I take the place I’ll stipulate that you get rid of the lodgekeepers.”
“There won’t be the slightest difficulty about that, for they are only weekly tenants. But I’m vexed to hear they were uncivil. I was glad to get any tenant that offered, and they were well recommended to me.”
“They’re foreigners.”
“One of them is—a Belgian refugee that Lady Morewood took an interest in. But the other—Spittal, they call him—I thought he was Scotch.”
“He’s not that. And I don’t like the innkeeper either. I would want him shifted.”
Dr. Loudon laughed. “I dare say Dobson is a rough diamond. There’s worse folk in the world all the same, but I don’t think he will want to stay. He only went there to pass the time till he heard from his brother in Vancouver. He’s a roving spirit, and will be off overseas again.”
“That’s all right!” said Dickson, who was beginning to have horrid suspicions that he might be on a wild-goose chase after all. “Well, the next thing is for me to see over the House.”
“Certainly. I’d like to go with you myself. What day would suit you? Let me see. This is Friday. What about this day week?”
“I was thinking of to-morrow. Since I’m down in these parts I may as well get the job done.”
Mr. Loudon looked puzzled. “I quite see that. But I don’t think it’s possible. You see, I have to consult the owners and get their consent to a lease. Of course they have the general purpose of letting, but—well, they’re queer folk the Kennedys,” and