The Collected Works of John Buchan (Illustrated). Buchan John
as you can imagine. It isn’t entailed, and I’ve always been pressing them to sell, but so far they won’t hear of it. They both married Englishmen, so it will take a day or two to get in touch with them. One, Mrs. Stukely, lives in Devonshire. The other—Miss Katie that was— married Sir Frances Morewood, the general, and I hear that she’s expected back in London next Monday from the Riviera. I’ll wire and write first thing to-morrow morning. But you must give me a day or two.”
Dickson felt himself waking up. His doubts about his own sanity were dissolving, for, as his mind reasoned, the factor was prepared to do anything he asked—but only after a week had gone. What he was concerned with was the next few days.
“All the same I would like to have a look at the place to-morrow, even if nothing comes of it.”
Mr. Loudon looked seriously perplexed. “You will think me absurdly fussy, Mr. McCunn, but I must really beg of you to give up the idea. The Kennedys, as I have said, are—well, not exactly like other people, and I have the strictest orders not to let any one visit the house without their express leave. It sounds a ridiculous rule, but I assure you it’s as much as my job is worth to disregard it.”
“D’you mean to say not a soul is allowed inside the House?”
“Not a soul.”
“Well, Mr. Loudon, I’m going to tell you a queer thing, which I think you ought to know. When I was taking a walk the other night—your Belgian wouldn’t let me into the policies, but I went down the glen—what’s that they call it? the Garple Dean—I got round the back where the old ruin stands and I had a good look at the House. I tell you there was somebody in it.”
“It would be Spittal, who acts as caretaker.”
“It was not. It was a woman. I saw her on the verandah.”
The candid grey eyes were looking straight at Dickson, who managed to bring his own shy orbs to meet them. He thought that he detected a shade of hesitation. Then Mr. Loudon got up from his chair and stood on the hearthrug looking down at his visitor. He laughed, with some embarrassment, but ever so pleasantly.
“I really don’t know what you will think of me, Mr. McCunn. Here are you, coming to do us all a kindness, and lease that infernal white elephant, and here have I been steadily hoaxing you for the last five minutes. I humbly ask your pardon. Set it down to the loyalty of an old family lawyer. Now, I am going to tell you the truth and take you into our confidence, for I know we are safe with you. The Kennedys are—always have been—just a wee bit queer. Old inbred stock, you know. They will produce somebody like poor Mr. Quentin, who was as sane as you or me, but as a rule in every generation there is one member of the family—or more—who is just a little bit—” and he tapped his forehead. “Nothing violent, you understand, but just not quite ‘wise and world-like,’ as the old folk say. Well, there’s a certain old lady, an aunt of Mr. Quentin and his sisters, who has always been about tenpence in the shilling. Usually she lives at Bournemouth, but one of her crazes is a passion for Huntingtower, and the Kennedys have always humoured her and had her to stay every spring. When the House was shut up that became impossible, but this year she took such a craving to come back, that Lady Morewood asked me to arrange it. It had to be kept very quiet, but the poor old thing is perfectly harmless, and just sits and knits with her maid and looks out of the seaward windows. Now you see why I can’t take you there to-morrow. I have to get rid of the old lady, who in any case was travelling south early next week. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Dickson with some fervour. He had learned exactly what he wanted. The factor was telling him lies. Now he knew where to place Mr. Loudon.
He always looked back upon what followed as a very creditable piece of play-acting for a man who had small experience in that line.
“Is the old lady a wee wizened body, with a black cap and something like a white cashmere shawl round her shoulders?”
“You describe her exactly,” Mr. Loudon replied eagerly.
“That would explain the foreigners.”
“Of course. We couldn’t have natives who would make the thing the clash of the countryside.”
“Of course not. But it must be a difficult job to keep a business like that quiet. Any wandering policeman might start inquiries. And supposing the lady became violent?”
“Oh, there’s no fear of that. Besides, I’ve a position in this country—Deputy Fiscal and so forth—and a friend of the Chief Constable. I think I may be trusted to do a little private explaining if the need arose.”
“I see,” said Dickson. He saw, indeed, a great deal which would give him food for furious thought. “Well, I must possess my soul in patience. Here’s my Glasgow address, and I look to you to send me a telegram whenever you’re ready for me. I’m at the Salutation to-night, and go home to-morrow with the first train. Wait a minute”—and he pulled out his watch— “there’s a train stops at Auchenlochan at 10.17. I think I’ll catch that… Well Mr. Loudon, I’m very much obliged to you, and I’m glad to think that it’ll no’ be long till we renew our acquaintance.”
The factor accompanied him to the door, diffusing geniality. “Very pleased indeed to have met you. A pleasant journey and a quick return.”
The street was still empty. Into a corner of the arches opposite the moon was shining, and Dickson retired thither to consult his map of the neighbourhood. He found what he wanted, and, as he lifted his eyes, caught sight of a man coming down the causeway. Promptly he retired into the shadow and watched the new-comer. There could be no mistake about the figure; the bulk, the walk, the carriage of the head marked it for Dobson. The innkeeper went slowly past the factor’s house; then halted and retraced his steps; then, making sure that the street was empty, turned into the side lane which led to the garden.
This was what sailors call a cross-bearing, and strengthened Dickson’s conviction. He delayed no longer, but hurried down the side street by which the north road leaves the town.
He had crossed the bridge of Lochan and was climbing the steep ascent which led to the heathy plateau separating that stream from the Garple before he had got his mind quite clear on the case. First, Loudon was in the plot, whatever it was; responsible for the details of the girl’s imprisonment, but not the main author. That must be the Unknown who was still to come, from whom Spidel took his orders. Dobson was probably Loudon’s special henchman, working directly under him. Secondly, the immediate object had been the jewels, and they were happily safe in the vaults of the incorruptible Mackintosh. But, third—and this only on Saskia’s evidences—the worst danger to her began with the arrival of the Unknown. What could that be? Probably, kidnapping. He was prepared to believe anything of people like Bolsheviks. And, fourth, this danger was due within the next day or two. Loudon had been quite willing to let him into the house and to sack all the watchers within a week from that date. The natural and right thing was to summon the aid of the law, but, fifth, that would be a slow business with Loudon able to put spokes in the wheels and befog the authorities, and the mischief would be done before a single policeman showed his face in Dalquharter. Therefore, sixth, he and Heritage must hold the fort in the meantime, and he would send a wire to his lawyer, Mr. Caw, to get to work with the constabulary. Seventh, he himself was probably free from suspicion in both Loudon’s and Dobson’s minds as a harmless fool. But that freedom would not survive his reappearance in Dalquharter. He could say, to be sure, that he had come back to see his auntie, but that would not satisfy the watchers, since, so far as they knew, he was the only man outside the gang who was aware that people were dwelling in the House. They would not tolerate his presence in the neighbourhood.
He formulated his conclusions as if it were an ordinary business deal, and rather to his surprise was not conscious of any fear. As he pulled together the belt of his waterproof he felt the reassuring bulges in its pockets which were his pistol and cartridges. He reflected that it must be very difficult to miss with a pistol if you fired it at, say, three yards, and if there was to be shooting that would be his range. Mr. McCunn had stumbled on the precious truth that the best way