The Mystery of the Green Ray, William le Queux [e book reader pdf .txt] 📗

that this green ray is some chemical production of Nature unassisted there isn’t the same reason for you to leave us.”

“No, that’s true,” he agreed, “but we were both a bit scared yesterday, old chap, and the more I think of this dog business the less I like it. It was mere conceit on my part that made me say it was bound to be some natural phenomenon merely because I couldn’t understand how the effect could have been humanly produced.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “our best course would be to keep an open mind about the whole thing.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I’m with you entirely. And in that case my going away is not going to aggravate the effects of a natural phenomenon, while it may restrain the human agency by removing the necessity for further activity.”

“Well, that’s sound enough,” I acquiesced; “but I shall hear from you, I hope?”

“Of course, my dear fellow,” he laughed, “we’re in this thing together. You’ll hear from me as often as you want, and who knows what else besides. I have no intention of dropping this for a minute, Ewart. But I think I can do more if I am not on the spot. We’re agreed that my presence here may be a source of danger to you all.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think yours is the best plan. What do you propose to do?”

“Well, to begin with, I shall devote an hour or two to knocking our panic theory on the head.”

“You mean the natural phenomenon idea?”

“Precisely,” said he. “I don’t think that it will be able to exist very long in the light of physical knowledge—not that that is a very powerful light, but it should be strong enough for our purpose. As soon as I have convinced myself that our enemy is a mere human being I shall take such steps as I may think necessary at the time. Then, of course, I shall acquaint you with the steps that I have taken, and we shall work together and round up our man, and, figuratively speaking, make him swallow his hideous green ray.”

“What sort of steps do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, that all depends,” my friend answered, “on what sort of man we have to deal with. But it will certainly include providing ourselves with the necessary means of self-defence, and may run to calling in the assistance of the authorities.”

“I’m not sure that the presence of the police in a quiet spot like this might not have a disastrous effect on our plans,” I pointed out.

“I shouldn’t worry about the police,” he laughed. “I should make for the naval chaps. I’m rather pally with them just now; I’m booked up to do some work of various descriptions for the period of the war, and I think if I can give them the promise of a little fun and excitement they would be willing to help.”

“Which indeed they could,” I agreed readily. “Any attempt our enemy might make to get away from us would probably mean a bolt for the open sea, and a few dozen dreadnoughts would be cheerful companionship.”

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