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diff --git a/77800-0.txt b/77800-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6a45df6 --- /dev/null +++ b/77800-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8055 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77800 *** + + + + +What was happening on Carnglass, that “Heap of Gray Stones” beyond the +Outer Islands of the Hebrides? Old Lady MacAskival, the proprietress, +had brought in a queer lot of people from England, and the hostility +toward outsiders seemed to emanate from the frowning cliffs of +Carnglass. Anyone who tried to land, it was rumored, might be fired +upon. On a black night at sea, five MacAskivals from the neighboring +island of Daldour had seen a pillar of flame rise near Askival Harbor, +and had heard something like gunfire. And away in Michigan, old +Duncan MacAskival, the retiring head of the MacAskival Iron Works, +had encountered but stony silence in his many attempts to communicate +with Lady MacAskival concerning his desire to purchase the home of his +ancestors. + +When Duncan, for all his pains, receives an odd water-stained note in +an unsigned, hastily-scrawled female hand, requesting “confidential +agents” and “immediate action,” he sends young Hugh Logan, his legal +counsel, to investigate. The adventure that unfolds is calculated to +transform the most comfortable armchair into a veritable bucket seat of +suspense. + +In his efforts to reach Carnglass and the Old House, where Lady +MacAskival resides, Logan is confronted by the sinister agents of a +puzzling conspiracy--a baleful Glasgow “commission agent,” a cashiered +British officer, an Irish terrorist on the run, and, behind the stone +mass known as the Old House, the chilling man with the Third Eye. + + + + +old house of fear + + + + + OLD + HOUSE + OF + FEAR + + BY RUSSELL KIRK + + FLEET PUBLISHING CORPORATION + 230 PARK AVENUE + NEW YORK 17, N.Y. + + + + + COPYRIGHT © 1961 + BY FLEET PUBLISHING CORPORATION + 230 Park Avenue, New York 17, New York + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + Protected under International Copyright Convention + and the Pan American Copyright Convention + + Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-7627 + + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + This Gothick tale, in unblushing line + of direct descent from _The Castle of + Otranto_, I do inscribe to Abigail Fay. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Chapter 1 _11_ + + Chapter 2 _26_ + + Chapter 3 _42_ + + Chapter 4 _58_ + + Chapter 5 _78_ + + Chapter 6 _95_ + + Chapter 7 _111_ + + Chapter 8 _136_ + + Chapter 9 _153_ + + Chapter 10 _173_ + + Chapter 11 _187_ + + Chapter 12 _201_ + + Chapter 13 _218_ + + Chapter 14 _230_ + + Chapter 15 _248_ + + + + +old house of fear + + + + +1 + + +On this shrouded night, five men tossed in a boat off the island of +Carnglass, where the sea never is smooth. So thick about them hung the +fog that they could not see the great cliffs. Knowing, though, every +rock and reef, they sensed where the island lay. + +Of a sudden, a tall flame shot up from Carnglass, fierce and unnatural. +Across the swell there came to the men in the boat the crash of some +explosion. Clinging to their oars, they stared silent toward the land; +the oldest man crossed himself. The flame, surging and waving for some +minutes, soon sank lower. In a little while they heard faint distant +sounds, several of them, like gunshots. The younger men looked to the +old helmsman, who pulled hesitantly at his white beard. + +Then he signed to them to put the boat about. Glancing fearfully at the +distant flame as they heaved, two men hauled at the sail. In a minute +they had changed course, and the fire in the night glowed at their +backs as they pulled away from the uneasy neighborhood of silent and +invisible Carnglass. + + * * * * * + +Three thousand miles away, two men sat in a handsome office. “That’s +our island,” Duncan MacAskival said: “Carnglass.” + +Across the Ordnance Survey map his thick forefinger moved to a ragged +and twisted little outline, away at the verge of the Hebrides, which +even upon the linen of the map seemed to recoil from the Atlantic +combers. “The tattered top of a drowned mountain. And that’s the +castle, by the bay to the West, Hugh: Old House of Fear. I like +the names. You’re to buy Carnglass for me, cliffs and clachans and +deer-forest and Old House and all; and price is no object.” + +Hugh Logan smiled at the heavy old man in the swivel chair. “Why send +me to the Western Isles to haggle for a speck of rock I know nothing +about, Mr. MacAskival? Why do you need Carnglass? And why not have a +Glasgow solicitor do the business for you? I’d enjoy the trip, right +enough, but I don’t need to tell you that my time costs you bona-fide +money. Any junior clerk could buy an island for you.” + +“Look out there, Hugh.” MacAskival swung round his chair to the big +window at the back of his teak-panelled office. Far below, stretching +eastward for a quarter of a mile along the river, the stacks and +coke-ovens and corrugated-iron roofs of MacAskival Iron Works sent up +to heaven their smoke and flame and thunder. “Look at it all. I made +it. And what has it given me? Two coronary fits. I’m told to rest. +But where could a man like me fade decently? I’m not made for quiet +desperation. There’s just one place, Hugh, where I might lie quiet; and +that’s Carnglass.” + +MacAskival peered at his map. “I haven’t seen Carnglass,” he went on, +“except in pictures, and no more did my father, or his father. But the +MacAskivals came out of Carnglass to Nova Scotia in 1780, and they +didn’t forget the little croft below Cailleach--that’s the sharp hill +north of the Old House, Hugh. Their Nova Scotia farm was sand and +stumps, and yet not so barren as that Carnglass croft. Still, they’d +have traded ten farms in Nova Scotia for that wet little plot in +Carnglass. And after two strokes, I think I’d give the mills and all +for that croft--with the island thrown in.” + +Logan had walked to the window, and now stood looking toward the glare +of the coke-ovens; the flames went hotly up into the Michigan twilight, +that April evening, and the incandescent masses of coal fell roaring. +“Why, I think we might make a better bargain than that, Mr. MacAskival. +Peat bogs and tumbledown castles go cheap nowadays. But why do you mean +to send a man like me to buy you a few square miles of dripping misery?” + +“Cigar, Hugh?” MacAskival pushed a box toward him. “The doctor says I +can have just one of these a day. Well, I’m not so crazy as I seem, +and you know it. Under your veneer, you’re like me--sentimental as a +sick old ironmaster. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of having an +island all to yourself. So I’d like to see you hunt this dream of mine; +you work too hard for your age. ‘Getting and spending, we lay waste +our powers.’ I don’t plan to bare my bosom to the moon in Carnglass, +but it should do you good to play at being a pagan suckled in a creed +outworn--for a few days, anyhow.” + +Old Duncan MacAskival was a trifle vain of his quotations and +allusions, Logan thought. But Logan liked MacAskival, a self-made +man, a good deal better than the average product of the big +business-administration schools. It came to Logan that he, Hugh Logan, +rapidly was growing into an old man’s young man. It had been more than +a dozen years since he had led a battalion in Okinawa. He knew much +of Scotland, born in Edinburgh as he had been, though his parents had +taken him to America when he was nine; and he had gone back to take +a degree at Edinburgh University. A slackening of pace, for a week +or two, might do no mischief. All his life he had hurried: schools, +the university, the war, and the firm: in too much of a hurry, either +side of the water, to laugh, to marry, or even to dream. “No, Mr. +MacAskival,” Logan said, “I’m not the man to laugh at you. But you’re +a canny Scot, though five generations removed. Do you need to pay my +price just to draw up a deed to an island?” + +“You’re more of a Scot than I am, Hugh, though you look American enough +nowadays.” MacAskival leant back in his heavy chair. “Well, yes, you’ll +be worth your price in this business. You know something of Scots law +and tenures. And you can wheedle odd customers; Lady MacAskival is one +of that breed, they tell me. Here, look at yourself in that mirror.” +MacAskival nodded toward the baroque glass against the teak panelling. + +Logan saw reflected a mild-seeming, amiable face--or so most people +would call it, probably--almost unlined; still a young man’s face. +Sometimes, when he had been a major of infantry, that face had tended +to mislead people, and then Logan had to rectify impressions. He had a +spare body. “Do I look like a fool?” he asked MacAskival. + +“Not exactly a fool, boy, but close enough. You’re innocent: that’s the +word, Hugh. What a face to set before a jury--or a crazy old creature +like Lady MacAskival! Anyone signing a contract with you assumes +that he’s had the better of the bargain. Now I’ve tried before this +to buy Carnglass; I’ve been at it more than three years. I’ve tried +those Glasgow solicitors. They’re too sharp: what we need with Lady +MacAskival is babyish innocence.” + +“All right: I’ll take my innocence to Carnglass.” Smiling, Logan turned +back to the map on the big desk. “There still are MacAskivals in the +island, then? And what sort of cousin of yours is this Lady MacAskival?” + +“Call me Duncan, Hugh,” MacAskival said, “if you’ll really take +up the business for me. No, there’s not a real MacAskival left in +Carnglass, so for as I can learn. Lady MacAskival was born Miss Ann +Robertson; her family owned distilleries, money-makers. It was a +queer match when she married Colonel Sir Alastair MacAskival, Indian +Army, who was old enough to be her father, or more. Sir Alastair had +scars and medals, but nothing besides. Though he was chief of the +MacAskivals--and there’s precious few of that little clan left--he +was born in a but-and-ben in North Uist. I get all this from an +Edinburgh genealogist. Sir Alastair’s great-grandfather ran through his +property so as to keep up a fine show in London. The Great Clearance +of Carnglass was in 1780--that’s when my people were booted out, you +remember--and it was the work of that old reprobate Donald MacAskival, +our Sir Alastair’s great-grandfather: he turned the whole island into +two big farms and a sheepwalk, on the chance of squeezing more money +from the rents, and told all the crofting MacAskivals to go to Hell or +Glasgow. A few had the money for steerage passage to Nova Scotia, which +eventually made me president of MacAskival Iron Works. My father was a +pushing Scot, and so am I--and you, too, Hugh.” + +“So Ann Robertson brought money back to the MacAskivals more than a +hundred years after the Clearance?” + +“Not simply money, Hugh, but Carnglass itself. What little extra +Donald MacAskival contrived to wring out of the rents after the Great +Clearance did him no good. He died bankrupt; and the creditors took +Carnglass. His son sank down to being the factor for a small laird +in North Uist, and there the family lived on, hand to mouth, until +young Alastair went out to India and got some reputation for himself +along the Northwest Frontier. When he was past forty, he sailed home +to Edinburgh on leave. There he met Ann Robertson, and married her, +and they bought back Carnglass with Robertson money, and restored Old +House of Fear.” + +Logan bent over the map to find the tiny square that marked the Old +House. “That’s an uneasy name, Duncan, for an ironmaster who wants +peace and quiet.” + +“But it’s a brave old house, Hugh. And the name is Gaelic, not English: +‘fear’ is spelled ‘fir’ or ‘fhir,’ sometimes, and it means ‘man.’ Old +House of Fear is Old House of Man. Old! Why, the foundations of the +oldest tower go back to Viking times. The Norsemen took Carnglass in +799 or thereabouts. But there was some sort of chiefs house--Picts or +whatever they were--before then. There’s a tale in the island that +Carnglass was Eden: man started there, and woman too, I suppose. But +Carnglass hasn’t many living souls today. Old Donald MacAskival swept +off five hundred people--MacAskivals and MacLeods and MacDonalds--in +the Great Clearance, which left only thirty or forty souls, all named +MacAskival, in the whole island. There still were twenty or thirty of +their descendants living in Carnglass when Alastair and Ann bought it +back. But Ann, Lady MacAskival, isn’t much of a hand for company, it +seems; because when Sir Alastair died, in 1914, she got rid of what +MacAskival crofters were left. Off they went to a smaller island, +Daldour, three miles south across the Sound of Carnglass, one soaking +peat-bog: if Carnglass was Eden, Daldour was Hell. And there they are +still, for all I know, if they haven’t starved. Our Lady MacAskival, +who’s over eighty now, lives alone at the Old House with only a handful +of Lowland and English servants, according to what I could learn from +Edinburgh. She never leaves Carnglass. And she doesn’t often answer +letters.” + +“Then she’s not even a cousin of sorts to you?” + +“Not she. The chiefs of MacAskival were of Norse stock--the name’s +Norse, at least. And she’s from the Lowlands. Sir Alastair and she +never had children--I gather, besides, there wasn’t much love lost +between them--and she has no heirs, so far as I can find. And anyway, +Hugh, the odds are that I’m a Pict or a Scot, not a Viking. The island +people generally took the chief’s name for a surname, though they might +have no blood connection. I don’t mean to set up for chief of Clan +MacAskival: my people were fishermen or crofters who got themselves +killed, now and then, in MacAskival’s feuds. Old Donald MacAskival’s +father was out for the Pretender in ’45, which is one reason why Donald +went so deep in debt and made the Clearance. No, all I want is to live +in the Old House and look across the Sound of Carnglass, Hugh. That’s +the dream that I want you to buy for me.” + +“The Old House is liveable, then, Duncan?” + +“Sound enough, they say, though hardly anyone but Lady MacAskival and +her servants has seen the inside of it since 1914. That Edinburgh man +couldn’t find any photographs for me later than 1914.” MacAskival +pulled open a drawer. “There they are: not very good pictures, taken +the year Sir Alastair died. It seems to have been foggy that day.” + +“I presume it usually is foggy in your tight little island, Duncan,” +Logan said as he took up the half-dozen old prints. “There’s no +inhabited island further out into the Atlantic.” Foggy, yes; and yet +the great bulk of Old House of Fear loomed distinctly enough in the +middle ground of the photograph. Carnglass meant “gray stone,” and +the whole stern mass of masonry was of a gray that blended into the +outcrop of living rock upon which the Old House was built. But the +castle was not of a single period. The first photograph showed, on the +left, an enormous square tower of rubble, capped by a high-pitched +roof apparently sheathed with stone slabs. At one corner of this +tower, a little turret stood up, perhaps covering the top of a stair +in the thickness of the wall; Logan knew something about Scottish +medieval architecture. To this great tower was joined a range of +domestic buildings, three stories high, with dormers and crowstepped +gables, also built of gray rubble: early seventeenth-century work, +Logan thought. A smaller square tower closed the range. And then, +abruptly tacked upon the right side of the smaller tower, commenced +a mansion-house of ashlar, with small barred windows on the ground +floor but very large windows of plate glass above; this was in the +Scottish “baronial” style of Victorian times, yet carried out with +some taste and not altogether disharmonious with the medieval and +seventeenth-century buildings. A large door in the middle of this +latter-day façade seemed wide enough for a carriage to pass through; +perhaps it led to an interior courtyard. “All this on the right is Sir +Alastair’s addition?” Logan asked. + +“Yes,” said MacAskival, “and the place is bigger even than it looks: +there’s a courtyard behind, with buildings all round. The Robertson +distilleries paid for it. When Sir Alastair and his wife bought back +the island, the original castle hadn’t been lived in for seventy years +or more, and the roof was collapsing; but they put everything in shape +and made the place twice as big. I suppose old Lady MacAskival rattles +about in it now. Even though she’s one of the richest old women in +Britain, income tax and surtax won’t let her keep much more than five +thousand pounds’ income; and that probably only pays the servants she +has left, and for her food. She has trouble finding help, by the way, I +hear. It’s not everyone who wants to scrub floors in Old House of Fear.” + +“And you want a white mastodon?” + +“Only to die in,” MacAskival told him, cheerfully. “Every man to his +own humor, Hugh. I have the money to keep the place as long as I live; +and if I stay there only from time to time, I can keep clear of British +income tax. I may as well spend a few million, because the Treasury +and that foundation you set up for me will take all that’s left when I +die, anyway. I might leave you the Old House, though: it shouldn’t take +you long to acquire a taste for that style of living.” + +Hugh was turning over the other photographs. “One of the clachans: +one of the two villages in Carnglass. These are what they call black +houses, because the peat smoke just goes out of a hole in the roof, +after circulating round the room--but I suppose you know all this, +Hugh. Snug, anyway. And I don’t suppose any one of these is lived in +now, except possibly by a gamekeeper or two. Now have a look at this +other picture. What do you make of it?” + +In the foreground, Hugh saw a desolate graveyard, a low drystone wall +enclosing it; some tall white monuments showed above the wall, and in +the center stood, at a perilous angle, an immense Celtic cross. Beyond +the monuments was what seemed to be an ancient chapel with a modern +roof. And away in the background there hulked, dimly, a tall circular +building, rather like a vast beehive. + +“It all looks like something from before the Flood,” Logan murmured. + +“Well, much of it is nearly as old as anything in Iona,” MacAskival +observed. “That’s the chapel of St. Merin. She was stoned to death, I +think, in the days of St. Columba. Sir Alastair restored the chapel +as the family burial-vault. And that’s the famous Cross of Carnglass, +tenth-century; or it would be famous, if Lady MacAskival ever let +archeologists ashore. I don’t know what the thing beyond can be. Do you +feel more like becoming Laird of Carnglass?” + +“It’s a strange island,” Logan said, unsmiling. + +“Yet it can’t be so strange as the rumors make it.” MacAskival was +pleased, clearly, at having shaken Logan out of his commonsensical +ways. “Except for a few friends from London, the old lady’s let nobody +poke about since her own little clearance of 1914. They say that boats +trying to put into the harbor have been shot at. And they say there +are more bogles stalking through the heather than there are live folk. +And servants who’ve left the Old House have told people in Oban and +Glasgow that some of the London visitors are worse than the bogles.” + +“Scotland has no law of trespass--only acts of interdict after damage +has been done to property.” + +“You can tell that to our old lady, Hugh. If we do get Carnglass, I’ll +let the archeologists and the naturalists browse. I’m told there are +rare plants and birds, and a few fallow deer still. Nearly the whole +island has become deer-forest. One of the farms--the one closer to the +old house--seems to be kept in fair order; they have Highland cattle. I +learned that from Lagg, the factor, a Galloway man.” + +“You’ve corresponded with him, Duncan?” + +“In a unilateral way. First, three years ago, I wrote to Lady +MacAskival herself: no answer. Then I found out the names of her London +solicitors. I sent them an offer, and they wrote that they’d refer +it to Lady MacAskival. Then silence. I wrote again. The solicitors +answered that Lady MacAskival would give me a reply after reflection. +More silence. I wrote to the solicitors a third time, a year ago +yesterday, and got a letter back promptly: Lady MacAskival no longer +did business with them, they said, and I should write to her factor +in Carnglass, Thomas Lagg. I did. Ten months ago, Lagg replied that +Lady MacAskival was indisposed, but would communicate with me after +some interval. She never has said no--mind that, Hugh. Then still more +silence. I wrote to Lagg three times; no reply. But yesterday this +letter came.” From under his blotter MacAskival drew a sheet of cheap +notepaper, which curled up as he tried to lay it before Logan. + +“I told you she was odd,” MacAskival said, as Logan smoothed the sheet. +“The envelope was curled, too, and only partly straightened by having +been in a mail-bag.” Also the paper seemed water-stained, and the +writing in one corner had run badly. Though it was in a clear feminine +hand, it appeared to have been written very hastily: + + “3rd March + “Duncan MacAskival, Esq. + + “Sir: + + Lady MacAskival desires to discuss with you at once the proposal + which you have set forth. She requests that you come in person to + Carnglass without delay, or send confidential agents. Immediate + action is imperative.” + +There was no signature. “Lady MacAskival’s own hand?” Logan inquired. + +“Presumably,” MacAskival said. “The doctor tells me that I’m not +quite fit for ocean cruises just now. So Hugh Logan, Esquire, is my +confidential agent. Do you think you can act properly conspiratorial? I +saw you as Cassius in the Players’ Club performance of _Julius Caesar_ +last month, you remember, Hugh; and you were the best man in the cast. +You’d have done as well as a professional actor as you have with the +law. Well, I’ve cabled both the old lady and Lagg. I’ve told them that +you’ll arrive this week.” + +“This week, Duncan? Next month, at the soonest.” + +MacAskival’s thick eyebrows lowered. “Hugh Logan, I’ve given you a +boost for your firm, now and then. I’m not a man who enjoys being +crossed--you know that. Now this business is something that matters to +me. Who knows how much longer the old lady will live? I don’t intend to +miss this chance, after three years of trying. If you think anything of +me, you’ll fly to Prestwick tomorrow; and it will do you good, Hugh: +an easy bit of work in a charming quiet place. We can’t delay. Notice +the date of that letter. It’s been stuck somewhere en route; and it +came by ordinary surface mail, which took a week or more. I don’t want +the old lady to change her mind. In my cables, I asked to have Lady +MacAskival’s yacht--I suppose she must own something of the sort--put +into Glasgow or Greenock for you. You’ve a room reserved at Todd’s +Hotel, Glasgow, and Lady MacAskival’s people should get in touch with +you there. Will you go, or do I have to send some fool? I want to use +your innocence-mask, Hugh.” + +“Needs must when the devil drives,” Logan said in his easy way. “Give +me those plane tickets. I usually humor madmen. Besides, I mean to find +out what that beehive building is.” + +“Then it’s my Carnglass.” Duncan MacAskival slapped his hand against +the desk. “Here”--he fetched out a manila envelope--“here’s my +correspondence with the old lady’s people. And here’s some estimate +of what the island ought to cost, kit and kaboodle, that I got from +solicitors in London and Glasgow. And this, too--this will interest +you, Hugh.” + +It was a slim old pamphlet, the covers nearly ripped away. “It’s rare, +Hugh. Thin’s of Edinburgh found a copy for me. Take it along to read on +your plane.” MacAskival opened to the title page: “A Summary History of +the Islands of Carnglass and Daldour, in the Western Isles of Scotland; +with some Account of the Traditionary Tales of those Parts. By the +Reverend Samuel Balmullo, sometime minister of the Parish of Carnglass +and Daldour. 1818.” MacAskival was something of a book-collector. “I +know you’re wanting dinner, Hugh,” MacAskival said, “and I’ll take you +to the club in a minute or two, but let me read you a bit of this: + +“‘Among the surviving peasantry of Dalcruach village, on the eastern +strand of Carnglass, superstition exerts an influence as powerful +as it is debasing. In this clachan are said to reside four or five +Sgeulaiche, or narrators of traditionary tales of an extravagant +character, many of which antedate the arrival of Christian evangels +from Ireland in the sixth century. These relations often reflect, and +endeavor to excuse, the lingering of heathen and impious practices +among this ignorant folk. They speak, for example, of a “Third Eye,” +said to appear afresh, from generation to generation, among the +inhabitants of Carnglass, whether native-born or newcomers; and such +a spot upon the forehead is said to confer amatory powers, and is +regarded by these children of the twilight with a respect not far +removed from veneration. To labor among parishioners possessed by such +delusions is weary work; it has been said that to preach the Gospels +among the Pequots or Narragansetts is a facile undertaking by the side +of any endeavor to redeem from heathen error these denizens of the +furthermost Hebrides.’” + +MacAskival turned the page. “The Reverend Samuel Balmullo--he was +from the Lowlands, Hugh--tends to be long-winded, but rewarding. +Balmullo seems to have been a sour old fellow. He was interested in the +MacAskivals, though--give me a moment more.” Duncan MacAskival leafed +through the pamphlet. + +“‘Indubitably,’” he read, “‘a family of the first antiquity in the +Isles, the chiefs of MacAskival, though at present reduced to mean +estate, are said to be a sept of the MacDonalds, Lords of the Isles, +early parted from their headship by internecine conflicts. These +MacAskival chiefs themselves maintain, however--and with some show of +reason--that they descend from a stock older still. As their ancestor +and the founder of their fortunes, they claim a certain Sigurd Askival, +a Viking adventurer, who espoused the Pictish heiress of Carnglass, one +Mary or Merin. This noble lady of Carnglass was a woman of remarkable +beauty, despite her flowing mane of red hair, which the refined taste +of modern days would disapprove. In passing, it is necessary to notice +a tale, germane to the genealogical claims of MacAskival, that one +Mary or Merin, saint and princess, at a remote period was redeemed +from captivity to a bestial creature, described as the Gabharfear, +Firgower, or man-goat; and that her rescuer was Sigurd Askival, a Norse +freebooter. + +“‘One single substantial proof of the venerable lineage of MacAskival +is reputed to have survived well into the last century: a set of +chessmen carven from a blue stone, the “Table-Men of Askival,” +exhibiting the weird handiwork of a ferocious epoch, which objects +long continued the proudest possession of the chieftain of MacAskival. +These, however, no longer are to be found in the Old House of Fear, +their asserted repository; nor have they been transferred to the +elegant New House by the quay, although the present proprietor made +close search for the pieces. According to one fabrication of the aged +men of Carnglass, these “Table-Men” were immured in a tomb by the last +chieftain, to propitiate the Fiend. Once more the author apologizes +to his gentle readers for this trespass upon their hours of serious +reflection.’” + +“Old Mr. Balmullo,” Logan broke in, “seems to have taken a fearful joy +in recording superstitions. He protests too much.” + +“Yes, I think Carnglass bewitched Samuel Balmullo, Hugh. ‘Glamour’ is +an old Scots word, you know. Watch out, boy, that some Hebridean witch +doesn’t catch you: three days in Carnglass might turn the trick.” + +“Never fear, Duncan,” Logan told him, with his slow smile. “The Harding +case comes up next month, and I’ll be back for it.” + +“Fear? Why, there’s no danger of any sort in Carnglass, I suppose.” +MacAskival turned again to the window overlooking the plant. Now it was +dark, and the coke-ovens glowed against the night like the flaming City +of Dis. “Danger? Probably Carnglass is one of the few tolerably secure +places on earth. Sometimes I think we’ll turn the world into one final +hell of a coke-oven, Hugh. There may be some islands, though, left in +that fire. And Carnglass, where man began, ought to endure when man has +put an end to himself. I hope you can put this MacAskival back into his +island, Hugh.” + +“You’re really going to give me dinner at your club, Duncan?” + +Nodding, MacAskival reached for their coats. As they went out of the +office, he turned quizzically toward the younger man. “Speaking of +witches and bogles and man-goats, Hugh, why hasn’t any woman ever +captured you?” + +“Probably because there’s no romance in me,” Logan murmured, +straightfaced. + +“Why, there’s a good deal in you, Hugh. You’re canny, but have a +certain way with you.” + +“Don’t forget this, though, Duncan-- + + “‘You can grave it on his tombstone, you can cut it on his card: + A young man married is a young man marred.’” + +“Well! Hugh, you’re full of surprises. I thought only aged creatures +like me still read Kipling. I can match you-- + + “‘Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne, + He travels fastest who travels alone.’ + +Which way are you travelling, Hugh, with that innocent face of yours?” + +“Judging by what you tell me of the warlocks of Carnglass, down to +Gehenna, Duncan.” Then the elevator came, and the club, and the dinner, +and the brandy. That night Logan dreamed of a Carnglass Cutty Sark +capering round Carnglass Cross. And the next night he was aboard the +plane to Prestwick. + + + + +2 + + +On a wet and windy morning, Logan descended from the plane at +Prestwick. Once past the immigration officers, he took a taxi across +the moors to Glasgow. Now and then they sped past rows of white-harled +Scots cottages, some empty and far gone in decay. The heather and +gorse by the roadside called to Hugh Logan. He had walked the Pentland +Hills, and the Lammermuirs, in his Edinburgh years--sleeping in the +open, sometimes, when he had been a university student. The law-office +and the courtroom seemed remote in time and space, as he sat in this +speeding Rolls; and he indulged the fancy that perhaps he ought never +to have taken the bar-examination. + +In some ways, those savage months of pushing northward in Okinawa had +been the best of his life. The law was safe, and might make him famous; +yet there came hours, now and again, when Logan thought he ought to +have settled for a life of risk, a life lived as if every moment might +be the last. + +The cab-driver was saying something. “A foul day, sir. There’ll be +a storm out tae sea, sir. Spring’s late to Scotland this year.” The +driver never had heard of Carnglass, Logan found. Now they were coming +into the ugly sprawl of outlying Glasgow council-houses. And then +the great grimy city closed upon them, and soon Logan was getting out +before Todd’s Hotel in India Street, a building of blackened white +granite. + +At Todd’s Hotel, the taffy-haired little receptionist in the tight +black dress never had heard of Carnglass. Having left his suitcase in +his room, Logan came down again to inquire of the manager. That civil +gentleman, indeed, had heard of Carnglass; but he never had known +anyone to go there. And no messages from Lady MacAskival or Mr. Lagg +were awaiting Logan. He was not altogether surprised: eccentricity and +delay were to be expected in that quarter; he suspected that he might +have to make his way independently to the island. + +He might telephone or telegraph, though, to learn whether the yacht +or launch had been sent for him, and whether he would be welcome at +the Old House. It was no use, he soon discovered: the information +operator on the telephone, after lengthy consultation with someone at +the Glasgow central exchange, informed Logan that there was no cable +laid to Carnglass, and that no way of sending messages to the island +was known, there being no wireless there recorded in the exchange’s +books, except by post. Logan called the central postoffice. Letters +and parcels for Carnglass, it appeared, and Daldour too, were sent +by MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale, in South Uist, where they +were called for as anyone from those islands, or their agents, might +happen to put into Loch Boisdale. How long would an express letter +take? It was impossible to say: it might not reach Carnglass for some +days, depending upon whether any boat should happen to call at Loch +Boisdale. Also, however, letters for those islands sometimes were left +with an agent of the Carnglass factor, here in Glasgow, depending upon +instructions from Carnglass. Who was this agent of the factor? That +information the postal authorities were not authorized to give out. + +But Logan was a patient man. After lunch, he returned to his room +and dressed in a heavy suit that had been made for him during his +university years: of indestructible Harris tweed, the suit still fitted +tolerably well. Rain was coming down heavily now, so this suit was +made for the climate. He had with him a thorn stick, a memento also +of Edinburgh days; it might be useful for hill-walking in Carnglass, +should there be time for that. The little receptionist, who smiled +fondly upon Logan, recommended a travel-agent in Argyle Street; so +Logan took a cab there. + +Before entering the door of Moore Brothers, Travel Agents, Ltd., +Founded 1887, he stopped at a shop adjacent and bought an oilskin cape, +which probably would be the thing to wear in Carnglass; he had it sent +to Todd’s Hotel. Then he went up to the counter in Moore’s, where an +eager youth--with a manner the British call “smarmy”--proceeded to set +his hand on a pile of tour-folders. + +But the eager youth had no notion of how a gentleman might find his +way to Carnglass. He had special de luxe tours to Iona and Skye to +offer; these were much better-known islands than Carnglass, he told the +gentleman. No one ever went to Carnglass. Logan asked for the manager. + +This old man with steel spectacles at the end of his nose could suggest +only that the gentleman take MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale. From +South Uist, drifters and trawlers sometimes coasted off Daldour; there +was no harbour in Daldour, but he had heard that the islanders--“verra +queer folk, sir”--sometimes launched a boat and came alongside a +drifter. He did not know how anyone contrived to live in Daldour; it +was Ultima Thule. As for Carnglass, he had been told landing never was +permitted. Oh, the gentleman was invited? An American? Then no doubt it +would be possible. Perhaps the people in Daldour could take him across +the sound in their boat. The manager would be glad to sell the American +gentleman a first-class steamer ticket to Loch Boisdale, but he could +do no more. And a first-class railway ticket from Glasgow to Oban: that +was where one boarded MacBrayne’s steamers. This month, ordinarily, +there were plane flights three times a week to South Uist; but the +weather had been so wretched for the past week that flights had been +cancelled, and it might be two or three or four days before they could +resume. + +Logan bought his railway and steamer tickets. As he turned to go, the +manager had an afterthought. “One moment, sir. Meg, d’ye mind the +card that man left? The man that spoke with me concerning Carnglass?” +Aye, Meg--a stocky red-faced lass in her teens--minded it; she put it +bashfully into the young American gentleman’s hand. “Aye, sir, I had +near forgot,” the manager said, “but this man came in a month gone and +said that should any gentleman inquire after Carnglass, he might put +him in the way of a passage.” + +It was a soiled card with crumpled corners, cheaply printed, and it +read, “James Dowie, Commission Agent. 5 Mutto’s Wynd, Gallowgate.” + +“How far is Gallowgate?” Logan asked. + +The old manager drew in his lower lip and then protruded it +meditatively. “Why, sir, the Gallowgate’s far above the Tron. And it’s +late in the day. Would tomorrow do as well, sir?” + +“No,” said Logan, “I’m usually in a hurry. Surely a taxi could take me +there in ten minutes?” + +The manager fumbled with his spectacles. “Between ourselves, now, sir, +the Gallowgate’s not the place for an American gentleman by himself, +with the night coming on. Mind ye, sir, I’ve had no trouble of my +own in the Gallowgate. But this Mutto’s Wynd will be some wee vennel +or passage, and dark. Ye’ve heard tell of Teddy Boys and such? Aye. +Well, if ye must go, take a cab, sir; and make the driver wait for ye. +The man that left this card--he would be a bookie, I think. Nothing +against him, sir, nothing whatsoever. And the chief constable has done +fine work in the Gallowgate and the Gorbals, verra gude work. They +were worse when I was a lad. But were I yourself, sir, I wouldna stop +in a pub there. In the Gallowgate, the folk think all Americans are +millionaires. Would it were true, sir? Ha, ha. Aye, would it were true.” + +Going into the washroom at the travel-agency, Logan took out of his +pockets his passport, his traveller’s checks, and most of the pound +notes he had got at the hotel desk. He put them into the leather +money-belt he wore beneath his shirt. Logan had been around, though +most people wouldn’t credit it, apparently, when they looked at his +face; and he had the thorn stick with him. Then he took a cab to +Mutto’s Wynd, in the Gallowgate. + +Mutto’s Wynd turning out too narrow for any motorcar, the driver +parked the cab at the mouth of the entry. In Mutto’s Wynd, most of the +buildings were derelict, and some unroofed, since the Scots pay no +taxes on roofless buildings. Even for smoke-grimed Glasgow, Mutto’s +Wynd was very black. The dreary little building that was No. 5 stood +near the mouth of the vennel, and the cab would be almost within call. + +Although the windows of No. 5 seemed not to have been washed this +decade, a freshly-painted sign nailed above the door read “J. Dowie, +Commission Agent.” Logan gave the driver a pound note. “Keep the +change,” Logan said, “but wait for me.” The driver sighed, looking +uneasily down the wynd. Three doors beyond, there projected the sign of +a public house, the Dun Stirk. “But stay near the cab.” + +“O aye,” the driver grunted, “ye needna teach this auld dog new +tricks.” Logan rapped at the battered door of No. 5. + +Quite promptly, a heavy-jowled little man in a sagging business-suit +and a soiled old cap opened that door. “Come in, mon,” he said. “Ye’ll +be thinkin’ o’ the pool?” The little low room--this building, elderly +for rebuilt Glasgow, seemed once to have been a stable--contained a +decrepit desk and three straight chairs; the walls, long ago, had been +painted cream-color. The little man spoke the thickest Glasgow speech, +with its clipped words and rolled r’s. + +“Mr. Dowie?” Aye, he was Mr. Dowie. “Mr. Dowie, I’ve been told you +might know of a way to get to Carnglass.” + +Dowie, sucking in his fat cheeks, looked long and slyly at Logan. “Tak’ +a chair, mon. Ye’ll no be frae these parts?” + +Logan sat. “I’m an American, Mr. Dowie, with business in Carnglass.” + +Dowie leaned against the desk. “An’ what wud that business be?” + +“I’m representing my principal.” + +“Weel, then, Mr. American, ye’ll no object if I draw the curtains.” +Dowie pulled heavy blanket-drapes across the filthy glass; he bolted +the door. Logan sat easily on the rickety chair. “If it be Carnglass,” +said Dowie, “that ye mean tae see, then ye’ll ken Tam Lagg?” + +“The factor. Yes, we’ve corresponded with him.” + +“Aye, just so. And ye’ll ken Dr. Jackman?” Here Dowie, stooping +slightly, looked Logan in the eyes. + +“No, Mr. Dowie, I don’t know any Dr. Jackman.” + +“Ye dinna ken Jackman? Noo think o’ this, Mr. American: I’m official +agent o’ Tam Lagg. Ye’ve no need to keep matters frae me. What might +your name be?” + +“Hugh Logan. I’m to see Lady MacAskival.” + +“O aye. Lady MacAskival. She’s no keepin’ verra weel, ye ken.” + +“So I understand.” + +“No weel enough for chit-chat, Mr. Logan.” Dowie nodded mournfully. +“And noo ye’re in auld Scotland, ye’ll tak’ a trip to Rabbie Burns’ +country?” + +“I’ve only time for a Carnglass trip.” + +“Rabbie Burns’ country is Alloway and Ayr, ye ken, Mr. Logan. A braw +poet, Rabbie Bums. ‘A mon’s a mon for a’ that’--eh, Mr. Logan?” An +unconvincing smile came suddenly over Dowie’s sodden face, and he +clapped a dirty hand on Logan’s shoulder, in token of comradeship. +Logan did not move or smile. + +“I suppose what Burns meant, Mr. Dowie, is that worth and genius matter +more than rank--or as much, anyway. I don’t know that he had Glasgow +bookies in mind.” + +“O aye,” Dowie muttered, removing his hand. He scowled uneasily, and +then brightened artificially again. “O aye. I see ye’re a card, Mr. +Logan. Aye, a poet o’ the first water, Rabbie Burns. But ye’ve fine +writers in the States, too. Political writers. Ye’ll ken are or twa o’ +them?” + +Logan shook his head. “I don’t know a single political writer, Mr. +Dowie.” + +“And ye’ll no ken Dr. Jackman?” + +“This literary conversation is very pleasant, Mr. Dowie,” Logan said. +“But do you know of a ship or a launch that will take me to Carnglass?” + +Dowie sat down at the desk and pulled open a drawer. “Noo your +principal, Mr. Logan--he’ll be Mr. Duncan MacAskival?” + +Over the edge of the open drawer, a cablegram form was just visible. +“Then you’re the agent for forwarding the post to Carnglass, Mr. Dowie.” + +“Wha’ loon told ye that?” + +“Has Lady MacAskival received our cables?” + +“Wud I be a miracle-mon, Mr. Logan? I canna send word tae Carnglass by +Tellie--by TV, ye Yanks say. And wha’ wi’ the high seas, there’s no +boat that wud put oot for Daldour nor Carnglass these three days syne.” + +“Then I suppose Lady MacAskival’s not expecting me?” + +“Ye can suppose wha’ ye like, Mr. Logan.” + +“When can I get passage from Glasgow to Carnglass?” + +“Na, na, mon, I’m thinkin’ there’ll be no boat for Carnglass.” Dowie +rested his chin in his pudgy hand. His eyes swept over Logan with +that look of low cunning Logan had seen, so often, in malingering or +thieving soldiers. “But bide a wee, Mr. Logan: we’ll fetch a cup o’ +tea for ye while ye’re here. Jeanie! Jeanie!” He shouted toward a back +room. “Dinna fret, Mr. Logan: Jeanie’s my auld wifie. Jeanie! A cup o’ +tea for a Yank gentleman!” + +Around a door-jamb peered a worn face. Logan rose. “Na, na, Mr. Logan, +sit ye doon: it’s but Jeanie. Jeanie, chat wi’ the Yank gentleman while +I see wha’ can be done to obleege him.” Dowie slipped into the back +room at the moment Jeanie entered. Taking a chair, she sat staring +dully at the grimy floor, quite silent. + +“Rather a clammy day, Mrs. Dowie.” Mrs. Dowie, who had a scarf tied +round her head, said nothing at all. Dowie seemed to be telephoning +from the back room; and Logan, an old hand at snapping up scraps of +whispered evidence, contrived to make out a few words: + +“Aye, Jock, a Yank, but no in Yank’s clothes. Quick, noo.” The phone +was hung up, and Dowie returned, that fixed smile across his face. +“Jeanie! Hae ye no been entertainin’ the gentleman? Fetch the tea, +lass.” + +Jeanie went. “Well, now, Mr. Dowie,” Logan said, “have you found +something for me?” + +“Ye wudna wish to go where they’ll no be expectin’ ye, wud ye, sir? +And Lady MacAskival’s ower auld for company. Tak’ the plane home, Mr. +Logan. Ye’ll do no business in Carnglass.” + +“If you’ll do nothing for me, Dowie, I’ll go elsewhere. It’s getting +late.” + +The look of triumphant cunning was back in Dowie’s eyes. “Aye, but the +tea, Mr. Logan; bide for the tea.” Jeanie returned with a wooden tray, +a teapot under a cozy, and three cups. Logan stood up. + +“I’m always in a hurry, Dowie. Thank you, Mrs. Dowie, but I haven’t +time for tea.” There seemed to be voices raised outside in the wynd, +now, and a heavy thud, rather as if someone had kicked the side of an +automobile. “Good day to you.” + +“But first, man,” said Dowie, sidling between Logan and the street +door, “we’ll shake hands a’ roun’, should auld acquaintance be forgot.” +Logan briefly took Dowie’s hand, and then Jeanie’s. “And ye’ll confess, +Mr. Logan, that ye came here o’ your ain free will, an’ no invitation.” +Logan agreed. “Ye heard, Jeanie,” Dowie muttered. “Ye’re a witness.” +In the street beyond the mouth of the wynd, a motor started, and Logan +thought he heard a car drive away. + +“That may be my taxi leaving,” Logan said. He had his stick in his hand. + +“Weel, noo, Mr. American,” Dowie told him, with what possibly was +intended for a convivial smile, “I’m sorry I couldna serve ye. Cheerio +the noo. I’ll open the door for ye.” He did. And the second Logan +stepped out, the door was slammed behind him and bolted. + +Mutto’s Wynd was shadowy. Yes, the taxi had gone; and lounging against +the wall of No. 5 were four men. Logan faced them. They were very young +roughs, three of them, with the greasy sideburns and the pimpled faces +that went, in their sort, with a diet of fish and chips. The fourth +man, a big lank fellow, older, wore a wide leather belt round his +waist, and he had a very nasty smirk. By way of obstacle, the lank man +thrust out a long leg. + +“Hello, Yank,” the lank man said. The other three came slowly round +Logan. + +“Good evening, friend,” Logan answered. No one else was in the wynd. + +“This is the auld Gallowgate, Yank,” the lank man went on. “This was +where they hangit the gallows-craws. We’re gallows-craws, Yank.” He +gave a short, harsh whiskey-laugh, and the three young roughs cackled +in echo. “Ye’ll stand us a dram at the Dun Stirk, Yank?” + +“I’m sorry, friend, but I’m in a hurry.” It was quiet and dark in +Mutto’s Wynd. + +The lank man smirked. “Damn ye, Yank, ye’ll no be in sic a hurry noo!” +He flung himself toward Logan, one foot going out to trip him. + +Logan was ready. He thrust the point of the thorn stick into the lank +man’s belly, and the lank man screamed and stumbled back. But one of +the greasy youngsters had his arm round Logan’s throat, from the back. +Taking the boy’s fingers, Logan bent them backward: the rough yelled +and let go. And now they were on him, all four. + +Someone had a long razor. Logan caught the wrist that held it, striking +with the point of his stick at the face behind; the razor dropped to +the cobblestones, but someone else got Logan’s legs out from under him. +He fell heavily on the wet stones, and took a kick in the ribs. Another +razor flashed. Someone had a hand inside Logan’s coat. The mackintosh +he wore hampered him. There came a kick at his head, though a glancing +blow. He had hold at last of someone’s thighs, and was struggling +upward. A kick in the back; and a razor slashed one sleeve of the +mackintosh. All that saved him for the second, Logan knew, was that +they were so close about him as to get in one another’s way. + +This was no simple robbery: they meant to slash or cripple him, or +something worse. Another fierce kick in his ribs. The man he had got +by the thighs slipped and fell upon him. And as Logan fought clear, he +heard steel-plated heels running over the cobbles. Someone was helping +him up: a tall policeman. Another policeman was chasing four dim +figures down the wynd. + +The policeman who had lifted Logan had a bruise over one eye. “That +was Jock Anderson’s lads, Donald,” he panted to the other policeman, +returned from the unsuccessful chase. “Jock gie me the bash over the +eye.” Logan was getting his breath back. “If ye’ll prefer charges, +sir,” the policeman said to him, “we’ll have warrants out for these +chaps; we know them.” + +“There’s small harm done, constable, and I’m leaving Glasgow tomorrow.” + +“Did they not take your money, sir?” + +Logan felt inside his coat and discovered no billfold. “Yes, but I +hadn’t much with me.” + +If the gentleman would come to the station and swear to a complaint, +the second constable told him, they might not have to trouble him +further. “Your cabbie found us, sir; they forced him awa’.” Logan left +a five-pound note with the policeman for the driver. “Were ye in No. 5 +yonder, sir?” + +Though the constable named Donald knocked hard at the door of No. 5, no +one answered, and the building showed no light. “By this time,” Donald +said, “Jim Dowie’s flitted, and his wife Jeanie with him. And I dinna +think we could charge them. But we’re keepin’ watch on Dowie, sir: a +slippery one.” + +Then, in the Gallowgate, they found him another taxi to take him back +to the hotel. And in India Street, Logan washed the grime of Mutto’s +Wynd from himself. Stiff and bruised: but no ribs broken, and the razor +had slashed only the mackintosh. There still was time to go down to +dinner. Afterward, Logan had promised, he would go round to the station +and swear to a statement. + +In his hot tub, Logan tried to make sense of what had happened. The +policemen took it for a simple case of pocket-picking, perhaps abetted +by Jim Dowie, Commission Agent. But Logan thought that Dowie had meant +to keep him out of Carnglass--possibly. Who was this Jackman that Dowie +had mentioned? Lady MacAskival’s private physician, or merely some +crony or invention of Dowie’s? And what interest had Dowie, or anyone +else, in keeping him out of Carnglass? And why should Thomas Lagg the +factor have a friend, and mail-forwarder, like J. Dowie? Logan felt +full of fight. He would take the morning train to Oban, and there, no +matter what the price, he’d find passage to Carnglass. + +On going down to dinner, Logan stopped at the reception-desk to see if +there might be a message from Carnglass. There was none. Presumably +Dowie really had Duncan MacAskival’s cables in his desk. But also it +was likely that Dowie, during this weather, had no way of getting word +to Carnglass. If so, Logan would be quite unexpected when he landed. +That might be just as well, supposing that Lagg had some connection +with the queer business in Mutto’s Wynd. + +As he turned away from the reception-counter, Logan felt himself being +watched. Or were his nerves on edge? He glanced to the right, and a +man’s eyes met his, but dropped away hastily. It was like looking into +the eyes of a bird: little black eyes, darting and quick to flee. The +man, he thought, had been looking at the top leaf of the open hotel +register. As Logan went into the dining room, he looked back; the man +was going out into the street. But he had a good view of him. + +Birdlike? The man’s body was anything but birdlike, unless one thought +of a stork. Tall, with shoulders thrown back; a heavy, rather clumsy +torso, protruding in front; but the legs extremely thin. The man wore +a bowler and a good worsted town-suit, dark gray; he was getting +into a raincoat as he passed out of Logan’s sight into India Street. +He carried a long malacca stick. Even in these brief glimpses, Logan +had the impression that this fellow meant to be taken for a country +gentleman or a retired officer. Yet somehow the effect did not quite +come off. Logan told himself not to be edgy: it wouldn’t do to suspect +every hotel-guest of dark designs. Perhaps the man had only been +glancing at a raw spot on Logan’s cheek, where Jock Anderson’s boot had +scraped. + +Yet after dinner, and just before he took a cab to the police station, +the receptionist with the taffy hair spoke to Logan. “Did the gentleman +find you, sir?” + +“What gentleman?” + +“He didn’t leave his name, sir; he only asked after you--if you were +staying in the hotel--and waited a moment by the counter. I thought he +would have seen you when you went into dinner. A military gentleman, +perhaps.” + +Yes, that would have been the man with the bird’s eyes: a military, or +pseudo-military, gentleman. Logan made up his mind to remember that +gentleman. + +Of that gentleman, and of his business in Carnglass, however, Logan +said nothing to the Glasgow police, who took his deposition and +promised action. Already they had been looking for Jock and his lads, +but with no luck. It was odd, the constable named Donald said: to get +out of town, or to find some snug hidie-hole, Jock and his gang would +have required more money than they took from the gentleman. Yet somehow +they had gone to earth, and so had Dowie. + +Logan told the sergeant that he was touring Scotland, and would be in +Oban a few days, at the Station Hotel. “Never place money with lads +like Jim Dowie,” they told him. + +An hour later, in bed at Todd’s Hotel, and tired though he was, Logan +took up “A Summary History of Carnglass and Daldour.” Balmullo, the old +minister, might have been a bigot; yet he had a keen eye and ear. There +was a page of description of the New House of Fear, built down by the +harbor by Donald MacAskival--one of the extravagances that had ruined +him--in 1777. + +“It had been the MacAskival’s design,” Balmullo wrote, “to have +demolished _in toto_ the Old House. But the chieftain’s means did +not permit of this undertaking. Accordingly,--and to the chagrin of +every connoisseur of the arts who sets foot upon the mole of Askival +harbour,--the rude Gothic construction has been permitted to loom +intact upon its ruder eminence, denuded of its plenishing save for the +gigantic carven chimneypieces. There remains also, above the principal +entrance to the Old House, a tremendous escutcheon, its bearings in +some part defaced, but yet displaying the graceless figure of a Wild +Man, armed with a dirk, which Wild Man the vulgar name Askival, the +reputed founder of the fortress; and beside the Wild Man a female +figure in a state of undress, whom, with still less authority, the +folk of the island call Marin or Merin. Below these sculptures, in the +letters of a later period, is inscribed the legend, ‘They have said and +they will saye. Let them be saying.’ + +“Of baseless rumor and frantic conjecture, the island of Carnglass has +no stint. In contempt, I must record that the natives of this island, +blind to the perfections of the New House, continue to allege that +Donald MacAskival built afresh not out of an elevated taste, but rather +because, in the Old House, he had dwelt in dread of the wraiths of his +fathers, said to have waxed wroth with their descendant for his prudent +decision to expel from Carnglass the superfluous population. A gaunt +and bearded spectre, to which is given the appellation of Old Askival, +is reputed to stalk the empty corridors and chambers, in particular +the subterranean portions of the oldest tower. An obscure tradition +asseverates that a hidden passage leads from these cellars to a recess, +and thence to the outer world. Yet the Old House having been builded +upon the living rock, as has been observed elsewhere in these pages, +this supposition can have no more substance than the Kingdom of the +Fairies.” + +Here Logan turned out the light. For all his aches and pains, he never +had slept sounder in his life. + +On his second Scottish morning, Hugh Logan took the train for Oban. The +wind had gone down somewhat, and the rain was over, though grim gray +clouds still lay to the west. Through Larbert and Stirling, past the +Castle high on its rock, the train puffed up to Callender. Logan sat +in a compartment where two old ladies dozed over their knitting. Half +the time he looked at the hills and villages, and half the time he read +in Balmullo’s “Summary History.” And so the train swept into the West +Highlands. + +As they approached Loch Awe, someone paused outside the glass door of +Logan’s compartment. Looking up, Logan saw the man clear: the man in +the bowler, the “military gentleman” with the little black bird-eyes. +That military gentleman was observing him; but the furtive look moved +on to the two somnolent old ladies opposite. For a moment, Logan +thought the man was about to pull back the door and enter. Yet the face +turned away, and the military gentleman was gone from the corridor. +Logan had enjoyed a thorough look at his face: the swollen long nose; +the red and purple veins that bulged against the coarse skin; and those +tiny, frightened, frightening black eyes, sunk into the skull. About +fifty years old, Logan estimated, though seeming older. And a cashiered +British officer, some intuition suggested. + +Cashiered, yes. Logan made almost a hobby of collecting clippings from +newspapers about curious cases of criminal law, strange points of +evidence, failures to convict despite strong testimony. It was power +of memory, as much as anything else, that had brought Logan success +at the bar while he still was young. Now he tried to dredge up from +memory that repugnant face of the military gentleman. Cashiered, +cashiered. Hadn’t he read of a captain or major cashiered in India, +and subsequently tried by a criminal court for some separate, though +related, offense--and got off by a very clever barrister? A barrister +with somewhat unsavory political connections? The case had been nasty, +remarkably nasty--and the officer’s acts nastier still. Hadn’t some +London friend, years ago, sent Logan the penny-press clippings about +the case, with a picture or two of the accused? What had the fellow’s +name been? Something short? Gale, or Hare? No, even Logan’s trained +memory could not recall the details. Yet the face of the military +gentleman at the hotel and in the corridor, Logan felt, was curiously +like the nasty face he half-recollected from the smudgy newspaper +photograph. Had there been espionage hinted at the military hearings? +The man had been a bad lot in many ways. But Logan couldn’t feel quite +sure he had not fancied the resemblance. + +By Ben Cruachan, through the Pass of Brander; across the river at +Bridge of Awe; then Connel Ferry. The mountains loomed nobly as the +train approached the coast. The military gentleman did not return. A +few minutes more, and the train swung into the resort and fishing-port +of Oban, on the Firth of Lorn. Now the Western Isles were in plain +sight--Kerrera, at least, right opposite Oban. Logan could see its +treeless bulk from the window of his hotel. Of the military gentleman, +no trace. Logan looked for him in the railway station, but he must have +got off hurriedly from a forward coach and have gone into the town. Not +that Logan much desired to see the military gentleman again. + + + + +3 + + +“You might inquire at the North Pier, Mr. Logan,” said the Reverend +Andrew Crawford, “but I do not believe any fisherman will undertake +to set you ashore in Carnglass. All the boats will be gone from the +harbour until sunset: the storm kept them in port for three days, +and they won’t wish to waste another day in carrying a passenger to +Carnglass.” + +The Reverend Andrew Crawford, minister of St. Ninian’s Church, was a +knowledgeable man. The people at the Station Hotel had sent Logan to +him, not knowing themselves how he might get to Carnglass. Mr. Crawford +had set foot in most of the Outer Isles that still were inhabited. Now +he and Logan stood at the door of the manse, looking down the hill to +Oban town and the piers, with the dim gray Hebrides far beyond the blue +sea. + +“I’d pay whatever they might ask,” Logan told him. + +“It’s not wholly a matter of _l.s.d._, Mr. Logan. The swell round +Carnglass and Daldour always is heavy. I had difficulty in getting +ashore in Daldour, the day I visited, and I never have seen Carnglass, +except from Daldour or a boat. Lady MacAskival does not let even the +minister or the priest ashore. She has her own style of religion. +And these trawlers from the mainland aren’t popular with the island +folk. Once the keepers fired at an Oban boat that tried to put into +Askival harbour; nor are the men in Daldour much more hospitable. No, I +think you’d best take MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale: the South +Uist fishermen know the Carnglass waters. The reefs off Carnglass are +murderous.” + +“Who lives in Daldour, Mr. Crawford?” + +“There is but one name in Daldour--MacAskival. An inbred folk. In +Daldour there is a little machair--that’s the sandy land of the +Island--and the island people fertilize it with seaweed, and grow +potatoes. Also they gather seaweed and sell it; in the season, a +drifter puts close into shore, and the Daldour men bring out the +seaweed in their lobster-boats and load it aboard, and it is sold on +the mainland. On the day I visited Daldour, all the folk were at the +beach with their carts, running straight into the surf to gather the +tangle. Theirs is a poor life. The Daldour women weave a few decent +rugs and sweaters. They speak a strange Gaelic, with some Norse words +in it. For a month, one of our missionaries lived in Daldour, but he +was half daft when he left. ‘Mr. Crawford, I have served my time among +the Mau Mau,’ he said to me. And that though he was a Highlander and a +Gaelic speaker.” + +“Can you tell me anything about Lady MacAskival, Mr. Crawford?” Logan +asked. But--after a slight discreet pause--Mr. Crawford could not. +Logan, leaving him, went down to the North Pier to make inquiries after +any boat that might carry him to Carnglass. + +He had no luck. It would have to be MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch +Boisdale in the morning, he thought, for already it was late afternoon. +If the sea should be calm tomorrow, even a big motor-launch ought to be +able to carry him from South Uist to Carnglass. After a stroll along +the esplanade to the cathedral, Logan went back to his hotel at the +other end of the town and had dinner. The trawlers were in the harbor +now, unloading their catch upon the quay. But the fishermen were too +busy to be bothered with eccentric Americans that wanted passage to +Ultima Thule, Logan suspected. A light rain was coming down. Despite +that, after dinner Logan put his oilskin cape over his shoulders, took +up his stock, and--for lack of anything better to do--climbed the hill +behind the town. + +At the summit there was a strange building, Logan had noticed as soon +as he had come out of Oban railway station: a circular roofless affair, +like a ruined temple. This, according to the hotel people, was called +McCaig’s Folly, and had been built long ago as an observation-tower, +but never finished. Now, in the gloaming, Logan found himself close +beside the Folly. The season being too early for tourists at Oban, +the area round the Folly was deserted, so that Logan walked alone in +the drizzle, thinking idly of the Old House of Fear and old Duncan +MacAskival and his own solitary and work-laden life. A scrap from Scott +came into his head: + + “Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! + To all the sensual world proclaim + One crowded hour of glorious life + Is worth an age without a name.” + +Was that the way it went? Even leading his battalion, Logan never +had known that crowded hour. And as he thought of how some men are +drunken with drink, and others drunken with work, he heard steps in the +darkness behind him. + +Looking over his shoulder, Logan made out a familiar figure, a few +paces distant: the military gentleman. When Logan slackened pace, the +military gentleman hesitated for a moment, and then strode on toward +him. “Captain Gare!” the military gentleman called out, by way of +introduction. + +“Good evening, sir,” Logan said. Captain Gare, coming very close up to +him with a swagger of sorts, looked down from his stork-height upon +Logan. Flickering from side to side, the disconcertingly mobile little +black bird-eyes never paused for more than a fraction of a second to +meet Logan’s stare. The man struck his long stick against his own +trousers-leg. He opened his mouth, paused, gripped his stick more +firmly, and then spoke in a reedy educated voice. + +“Look here,” said Captain Gare. “I say--I.... That is, cigarettes--yes, +cigarettes....” There was an aroma of whiskey about Captain Gare, +but Logan did not think he was drunk. Certainly Gare was exceedingly +nervous, and he seemed disposed toward bullying. + +“I’m sorry,” Logan told him mildly, “but I don’t have any cigarettes +about me.” + +“No, no.” Captain Gare, scowling, paused afresh, perhaps trying to +take a new tack. “No, I don’t require cigarettes, not really. I don’t +smoke--nor drink, either. I say: you’re an American, are you not?” + +“Why should you think so, sir?” + +“Don’t take offense,” said Captain Gare. “Are you ashamed of being an +American? I’m not a chap people can take liberties with. You’re an +American chap, I know. Your name is Logan.” + +“I saw you at Todd’s Hotel,” Logan observed. + +“Did you? Did you really? I travel a great deal, Mr. Logan: private +means, you know. Yes, that’s it: I saw your name in the hotel register, +and thought we might have something in common.” + +“What might we have in common, Captain Gare?” Logan spoke evenly. +Captain Gare swept his bird-eyes across Logan’s face again, seeming +to gain heart. He slapped the stick against his leg, below the short +mackintosh he wore. + +“I say--don’t know India, I suppose? Never tried pig-sticking? No, I +suppose not; not you American chaps. True sport, you know. I was rather +good.” He towered belligerently above Logan. “There’s nothing like +steel. See here.” Captain Gare tugged at the head of his stick, and it +came away from the wood. It was a sword-stick, two or three inches of +blade showing above the cane. Logan had an amusing momentary vision of +a fencing-match there in the rain, complete with cries of “touché!” +Captain Gare, glowering upon him, rammed the blade back into its +stick-scabbard. + +“I take it that you know the world, Captain Gare,” Logan said, smiling +slightly. + +“Rather better than you do, I fancy, Logan.” It was clear that Captain +Gare now felt himself master of the situation. “I say, we needn’t beat +about the bush, eh? I’m told you’ve been at the pier inquiring after +passage to Carnglass.” + +“You’re an astute man, Captain Gare.” + +“That’s as it may be.” Captain Gare’s swollen features bent toward +Logan. “Look here: it’s quite pointless for you to go to Carnglass, you +know--quite. I suppose you’re a solicitor-chap, are you not?” + +“That’s as it may be,” said Logan. “My father and grandfather were +Writers to the Signet. You have an interest in Carnglass, Mr.--that is, +Captain--Gare?” + +“One of my friends has an interest there, sir. He knows Lady MacAskival +very well. Handles her affairs, as a matter of fact. Saves her +annoyance. She never welcomes callers, you understand.” + +“I’m afraid my business is with Lady MacAskival herself.” + +Captain Gare edged still closer. “Lady MacAskival is not competent to +transact business, Mr. Logan. I mean to say that she’s infirm. Quite +old, you know. No taste for American trippers.” + +“She has been in correspondence with my principal.” + +“Nonsense!” Captain Gare brandished his stick. “Mean to say, that’s +rubbish, you know. Lady MacAskival never writes. Infirm, a very elderly +party. Come, now, Logan: I dare say you’ve gone to moderate expense in +this fool’s errand. You’ll never see Carnglass. My friend is a liberal +man, and very close to Lady MacAskival. Money’s little object to him or +her. Suppose, now, on their behalf, I give you three hundred pounds, if +you like? Simply by way of reimbursement, we may put it, Logan. Fair +enough, eh? And then back to Brooklyn with you, eh?” + +“You have the money in your pocket?” Logan inquired. + +“Of course not.” Captain Gare gave him a supercilious smile. “A man +doesn’t carry such sums on his person, you know. Come back into town +with me, like a good chap, and I’ll write a cheque in your favor.” + +“I do happen to carry such sums on my person, Captain Gare,” Logan told +him. + +The military gentleman’s little eyes widened and flickered. His left +hand stole nervously along the sword-stick. “Not really? Hundreds of +pounds in notes in your pocket? I say....” + +“Not in notes, Captain Gare: in traveller’s cheques.” Here Captain Gare +sighed slightly, and his grip on the stick slackened. “Now could you be +interested, Captain Gare, in some such sum as six hundred pounds?” + +“Six hundred pounds?” Captain Gare drew a sudden breath. “Really, my +dear fellow, are you suggesting that you might pay me six hundred +pounds? Whatever for?” + +“For certain information.” + +“What manner of information, my dear sir?” Captain Gare turned +slightly, there in the dark, as if to make sure no one was at hand. + +“For instance,” Logan said, “detailed information concerning the past, +present, and future of Jackman.” + +That bow, drawn at a venture, sent its arrow home. On Gare’s unpleasant +face the mottled veins seemed to swell; the man stepped back. “Who the +devil are you?” cried Captain Gare, with a quaver in the reedy voice. + +“I take it that you know now what I am,” said Logan, still quietly. +“Whatever made you think I might accept money?” + +“I beg your pardon, sir; really, I ...” Captain Gare was stumbling over +his words. “That is, you did not seem precisely an American. All a +pose, eh? I say, you don’t mean that you’re ... that I’m....” + +“If you tell me about Jackman,” Logan went on, “we need say no more of +all this, so far as you are concerned. We already know a great deal +about Dr. Jackman, of course, but conceivably you might add something +or other. You’re the fellow who was cashiered, I take it. We know +enough about you.” + +“I swear it was a miscarriage of justice, Mr. Logan--or whatever your +name is, sir. I mean that affair in Madras.” Gare was almost panting. +“But Jackman--no, really, I can’t say anything, not for six thousand +pounds. My life wouldn’t--but you know that quite as well as I do.” + +The swollen face had gone deathly pale. Even had he been able to probe +deeper without giving away his game, Logan reflected, this man would +have been too frightened to be of any real help. It had been a good +random thrust, that mention of Jackman, whoever Jackman might be. + +“Very well, Gare,” Logan said. “If you don’t choose to clear yourself, +that’s not my concern. Very likely you’d be of no use to us. We’ll +have Dowie and Anderson any hour now.” Gare shivered. That shot, too, +had gone home. “As for you, Gare, you understand that if you don’t +sever all connection with this business, we’ll see that you’re taken +into custody? Perhaps the Continent would be a safer place for you at +present. And throw away that silly sword-stick: you couldn’t frighten +babies with it.” Logan snatched the thing from Gare’s hand and flung +it toward the lip of the hill; the steel flashed in the moonlight, and +then blade and stick were lost in the gorse. “Be off, now; I’ve tired +of you.” + +Gare, backing further away, muttered pitifully, “Then you’re.... Then +I’m not under...?” Logan gestured impatiently toward the town below. + +“You can go to the devil, Gare.” + +Captain Gare turned with clumsy haste, all his swagger gone, and +scuttled heavily down the path toward town; after he had gone a few +paces in the dark, Logan thought he heard him break into a run. Yes, it +had been a thoroughly satisfying random shot. He did not think he would +see Captain Gare again. + +Yet whoever thought it worthwhile to offer Logan three hundred pounds +to steer clear of Carnglass? Gare had bungled the business badly; he +must have been acting without instruction from his principal, Logan +thought--whoever that principal might be. Dowie? Or Lagg? Or this +fellow Jackman? There were depths in this business, surely, unplumbed +by old Duncan MacAskival. Trying to piece the thing together, Logan +walked slowly back to the Station Hotel. There the night porter gave +him tea and biscuits, and afterwards Logan went up to his rather chilly +high-ceilinged room, and stared at the plaster cornice for half an hour +before he went to sleep. But he could form no clear picture of what he +had begun to call to himself the Carnglass Case. + + * * * * * + +As he dressed, next morning, Logan saw from his window the steamer +“Lochness” at the pier: it would take him to Loch Boisdale, and +he hurried into his clothes and gulped down tea at 5:45. This was +Wednesday, his third morning in Scotland. Thus far, only frustration: +and yet the sort of frustration which roused Logan’s energies. To +judge from the impromptu and ineffectual measures that Dowie and Gare +had adopted, he was dealing only with an ill-organized and eccentric +opposition--though with adversaries sufficiently unscrupulous. And it +seemed to be an ill-informed opposition. Either that, or else Dowie and +Gare were out of touch with the real intelligence at work, for some +reason, supposing that they _had_ principals for whom they were acting. +Certainly neither of those two had seemed quite the man to concoct a +scheme to keep an American from his prospective purchase of Carnglass. +If there were a principal, would he be in the island? Lagg, the factor? +The storm of two days ago might have kept the people in Carnglass from +communicating with the mainland; but presumably messages now could be +sent and received by boat. Whatever messages might be sent, it scarcely +was possible that he should receive in Carnglass the sort of rude +welcome he had got in Mutto’s Wynd. Even if Carnglass was Ultima Thule, +still it was part of Britain, the most law-abiding of nations; and +there would be Lady MacAskival for surety. + +At six o’clock the “Lochness” steamed away from the pier toward the +Sound of Mull. They crossed the Firth of Lorne; and then, to the south, +they skirted the great rocky mass of Mull, while the wild shores of +Morven frowned upon them from the north. Several islanders were among +the passengers, and for the first time in years Logan heard the Gaelic +spoken naturally, that beautiful singing Gaelic of the Hebrides. It +went with the cliffs, the sea-rocks, the ruined strongholds of Mull and +Morven, the damp air, the whitewashed lonely cottages by the deep and +smoothly sinister sea. + +As the hours passed, the steamer put into Tobermory, and later touched +at the flat islands of Col and Tiree. It crossed the broad rough waters +of the Little Minch, with the romantic line of the Outer Isles before +them, and the round bulk of Barra drawing closer. After Castlebay, in +Barra, the “Lochness” steamed north past Eriskay, and into the splendid +dark anchorage of Loch Boisdale, in South Uist, that sprawling low +island of peat. + +It was nearly midnight now. Going ashore, Logan got himself a room at +the homely, cordial inn above the harbor. There was a schoolmaster +in Loch Boisdale village, the hotelkeeper said, who might know of a +drifter that could put Logan ashore in Carnglass. + +Once more alone in a rented room with only conjectures for company, +Hugh Logan settled himself in bed and took up that battered pamphlet by +the Reverend Samuel Balmullo. Mr. Balmullo’s taste certainly had run to +old bones. Here was a tidbit: + +“Even in the fierce chronicles of the Western Isles, the chieftains +of MacAskival are distinguished by a repute for deeds of blood and +passion exceedingly disproportionate to the wealth and power of their +sept. In the last century, upon the removal of the plenishing of the +Old House to the New House of Fear, there were discovered in a curious +pit or oubliette in the crypts the skeletal remains of a human being, +still bearing the marks of violence. This pit long had been put to the +office of a brine-tub, and it is supposed, accordingly, that the bones +had lain hid at the bottom for a great while, perhaps some centuries. +By any person inured to the sorry superstitions of the people of +Carnglass, it might have been anticipated--as, indeed, it befell--that +the vulgar peasantry, upon the exhibition of these sad relics of +mortality, would allege the bones--some of which were curiously injured +or deformed--to be those of a Firgower, or Man-Goat. A legend less +incredible, however, relates that the skeleton is that of an illicit +lover of a lady of MacAskival, seized by stealth at his abode in North +Uist, transported to Carnglass, subjected to indescribable torments, +and at length drowned in the brine of the oubliette. What the Duke +of Clarence suffered in a butt of Malmsey, some obscure chieftain of +the barbarous Hebrides, about the same period of antiquity, may have +endured in a darksome pit filled to its brink with pickled herring.” + +At the close of this charming paragraph, Logan settled himself to sleep. + +In the morning, on his way to seek out the schoolmaster who might +help him to a passage to Carnglass, Logan was surprised to find Loch +Boisdale and its neighborhood bursting with activity. Navvies were +unloading enormous crates from a freighter; two new bulldozers rumbled +down the road toward the interior of the island; recently-built huts of +corrugated iron, an age away from the primitive thatched Uist cottages +of field-stone that stood scattered over the oozy plain, shouldered one +another near the pier. The hotelkeeper had said briefly that something +important, in a military way, was in progress in the heart of South +Uist. A range for guided missiles, perhaps; and perhaps something even +newer. Idle policemen, the hotelkeeper had said, lounged about the +approaches to the construction-area. He did not like it. It would spoil +the snipe-shooting, and also evict honest families from their crofts. +“Those men in London are spoiling the best places and the best people.” + +About the middle of the morning, Logan plodded up the soggy road to the +schoolhouse. The sky was very gray again, and a fairly heavy rain was +falling; but even the guidebook confessed that the climate of South +Uist was the worst in Britain. MacLean, the rawboned schoolmaster, +would do what he could to assist the gentleman. Leaving the schoolroom +in charge of a senior boy, he went back with Logan toward the harbor. +Yes, Mr. MacLean knew the master of a drifter, now in Loch Boisdale, +who might conceivably engage to land Mr. Logan in Carnglass. This +fisherman, though akin to the schoolmaster, was a very remote cousin, +mind, and in need of money, to pay a fine. A fine for what? For +poaching. Logan wanted to know what sort of poaching--fishing in +forbidden waters? + +“No,” said MacLean, shortly, “sheep. Judge not that ye be not judged. +My cousin Colin knows all the shore of all the lonely islands, and on +some of the islands there are sheep, and deer. Whatever Colin is or is +not, there is no better pilot in all the Outer Isles.” + +Although Colin’s boat was in the harbor, the man himself was not in +sight when the schoolmaster and Logan got down to the pier. “He will be +drinking somewhere,” the schoolmaster said. “But here are some people +to interest you: people from Daldour.” + +Seated on the clammy pier, eating bread and butter in the drizzle, +were three men in rough island dress and rubber boots--or, rather, two +men and a bright-eyed boy. All three had about them a twilight look. +Their bodies were lean, their cheeks were hollow, their teeth protruded +slightly; a Lowlander might have said that they were not canny. + +They seemed so much alike that, but for differences in age, they might +have been triplets. “MacAskivals,” the schoolmaster murmured. “A dying +breed. In Daldour, now, most are old bachelors and old maids; they have +seen too much of one another, and will not marry. The last of an old +song. That big lobster boat by the pier is theirs; the MacAskivals have +but a naked beach at Daldour. I will speak the Gaelic to them, for they +will speak no English, although this boy knows the English well enough. +Among themselves, Mr. Logan, they speak a dialect as strange to me as +the Gaelic is to you.” + +Except for the boy’s bright glance, the three MacAskivals had given +no sign of recognition as the schoolmaster and Logan approached. Now, +as Mr. MacLean spoke to the three in Gaelic, there came very faint +shy smiles to all three narrow faces; the two men nodded, and the boy +replied in the slow flowing Gaelic. Presently, in a cautious tone, the +schoolmaster seemed to say something significant. The boy turned to the +elder of the two men, who spoke curtly, and the boy translated for him +to the schoolmaster. As he finished speaking, over the boy’s eyes came +a kind of glaze, and the two men turned again to munching bread and +butter, as if they had forgotten the existence of everyone else. + +“I asked them,” the schoolmaster told Logan, “whether they would take +you with them to Daldour, and then to Carnglass. They are in Loch +Boisdale for this day only, to buy what few things they do buy, from +month to month. They said they would not take you to Carnglass; it is +not a good place for a man to go.” + +“Not for fifty pounds?” Logan asked. + +“For no price, I believe. But if money speaks, my cousin Colin is the +man for you. And here he comes.” A squat man was sauntering along the +pier. “Colin is not overly civil, and he is fond of the drink; but +he knows the waters and the coasts.” They turned away from the three +silent MacAskivals and walked to meet the fisherman-poacher. + +What is uncommon among the people of the Isles, Colin MacLean seemed +surly. He did not acknowledge the schoolmaster’s introduction of Logan. +“Colin,” said the schoolmaster, “Mr. Logan asks you to set him ashore +in Carnglass. I will leave you to make your bargain.” Logan shook his +hand, and the schoolmaster strode up the hill. + +Colin MacLean gave Logan a long hard look from under the brim of his +sou’wester. “Carnglass, is it?” The only polish about Colin was his +careful English speech, no doubt learned from the British Broadcasting +Company, and uttered with a musical Gaelic intonation. Colin MacLean +spat upon the pier. “Carnglass: and so Lagg and his keepers would shoot +holes in my boat. You may go to hell, Mr. Logan.” + +Logan drew from his billfold ten big colorful notes of the Royal Bank +of Scotland: five-pound notes. “This is yours, Mr. MacLean,” he said, +“if you’ll set me ashore anywhere in Carnglass. It needn’t be Askival +harbor. Is there no other spot where a boat might put in?” + +Colin stared at the notes. “There is a place, Dalcruach, in the east, +where at high tide a boat--a small boat--can pass over the reefs, if +the sea is calm. All the rest is cliff. But I would not risk my drifter +among the rocks. You would need to row over the reefs alone. Here: I +have an old dinghy. For twenty pounds more, I would sell it to you. I +would bring you as close to Dalcruach as I could, and then you would +take the dinghy and fend for yourself, Mr. Logan. Are you a seaman?” + +“I’ve rowed before,” Logan said. “Here’s another twenty pounds for the +dinghy.” + +“The swell about Carnglass is a fearful thing,” Colin went on, shaking +his heavy head in doubt, “and the reefs are like knives. Now would you +sign a paper to say that Colin MacLean would be in no way responsible +for the possible drowning of Mr. Hugh Logan?” + +“I would,” Logan answered. “Take me aboard your drifter, and I’ll write +it now.” + +Colin tucked the five-pound notes into his pocket. “Midnight, Mr. +Logan: come aboard at midnight, and we will make for Carnglass. It is +not good to be seen landing in Carnglass; there might be a keeper with +a rifle, even at Dalcruach. I will land you at Dalcruach early in the +morning, with the tide in flood, the weather permitting. And then I +wash my hands of it.” + +That afternoon, Logan borrowed from the hotelkeeper an old knapsack, +into which he put some socks and underclothing, a shirt, sandwiches and +chocolate, and a thermos of coffee. He would leave his suitcase at the +hotel. He put on heavy waterproof boots and an old cap, and wore his +oilskin and carried his stick. And he was ready long before midnight. + +Colin MacLean, with two less dour South Uist men who made up his crew, +received him solemnly aboard the drifter. They puffed out of Loch +Boisdale into the sea, with only two lights showing; and after that, +for hours, Logan could perceive nothing but the obscurity of the night +sky, clouds shutting out moon and stars. Before dawn, they stopped +the engine, and Logan thought he could make out, vaguely, an enormous +land-mass to the south. The drifter rolled heavily in a menacing swell; +and there came the noise of that swell breaking upon rocks. “I will +give you back your money for this dinghy,” said Colin, with a sour +grin, “if you have changed your mind.” + +“Let me into the dinghy,” Logan told him, “and I’ll cast off.” + +“The more fool you,” Colin growled. They picked their way over the +uneasy little deck to the stern, where the dinghy was in tow. MacLean +let down a rope ladder into the little boat; he held an electric torch +to light Logan’s descent. “Here,” said Colin, in a last-minute access +of charity, “I will make you a present of the torch, Mr. Logan. And +here is something else for you.” Colin took a bottle of whiskey from +a jacket-pocket and thrust it into Logan’s canvas pack. “You will be +wetted in beaching the boat, and the sea is cold. Row straight for the +cliff ahead. The tide will carry you over the reef, but you must watch +sharp for the needle-rocks. At Dalcruach clachan there is a keeper’s +cottage, and perhaps you can dry yourself there.” Under his breath, +Colin muttered something like “God help you.” + +Then Logan cast off and took the dinghy’s oars. The drifter receded +into the night. + +For a moment, breaking through the pall of cloud, the moon showed him +the cliff-head above Dalcruach. What with oars, tide, and a slight +breeze at his back, Logan swept in toward Carnglass, the Heap of Gray +Stones. + + + + +4 + + +At Logan’s back, as he rode the crest of that grim darkling swell, the +forlorn hope of sunrise was fighting upward in the sky. By that pallid +light, diffused through a gray mist, he saw that he was in perilous +waters. Had the breeze been higher, he could have had no hope for +making shore, amateur oarsman that he was. Sweeping round the reefs +toward the sheer cliffs just visible in the west, a current tugged in +ugly mood at the oars; and he pulled hard against this current, for +it would have hurried him against that fearsome wall. Still coming in +toward shore, the tide helped him against the current. And now he was +among rocks. + +From the white heave of the water, he perceived that he was passing +over skerries which would be dry at low tide. What was worse to the +eye, here and there stuck up sharp rocks like swords menacing the sky, +the “needles” of which Colin had spoken. Had it not been dawn, surely +he would have run straight upon one. All about them--they lay all too +close, and suddenly he was passing some by--were wicked immense swirls +and eddies, enough to bring a man’s heart into his mouth. And Logan’s +heart did come into his mouth. + +Once only, in all his life before, had he been so frightened; and that +had been in a place very different, though equally eerie--a broken +tomb in Okinawa, where he had crouched with two other cut-off soldiers +while the Japanese scouts shuffled and whispered in the dark all about. +This fearsome coast was worse than the tomb had been, for here he was +utterly alone, in a hostile element. The mind-picture of the Okinawan +tomb, hurrying through his brain in this horrid wet moment, vanished +when the dinghy swung toward one of the smaller needles as if drawn by +a magnet. Logan thrust the tip of an oar hard against the rock, and +the boat slipped past. A wild scraping sound and a trembling assailed +him then: the dinghy hesitated, in the flood of the tide, right upon a +reef barely submerged. Yet her bottom held; and next she was off that +rasping bed and hurtling on toward the dim line of the beach. + +Logan was nearly powerless. What a fool he had been! This one crowded +hour of glorious life he would have exchanged, gladly, for a lifetime +of servitude in the law-office. Yet there seemed to be sand dead ahead; +and if he could pull hard enough against the weakened current, he might +yet get ashore. + +In the growing light, the island of Carnglass loomed like one +tremendous barrier of naked and sheer precipice, except for a kind of +fissure or den which was his goal, vague beyond the whitecaps. The +needles were gone now; the swell was full and heavy, as if the skerries +were past; and he could make out the waves flinging themselves upon a +dark beach, fighting high toward some grass and stunted trees, and then +retreating to the terror of the abyss. Two minutes more, and the dinghy +was tossed by those waves right upon the sand. + +Leaping out, Logan tugged with all his remaining strength at a line +attached to the bow, to draw the boat as high upon the shore as he +might, the water swirling about his waist. Back came the surf, flinging +the dinghy higher yet, and blinding and drenching Logan, almost taking +his feet from under him. Yet, persisting, he dragged the little boat +over the sand with a power he had not known was in him; and when he +thought she might be safe, he reached over the gunwale, grasped the +heavy chunk of rusted iron that was her anchor, and flung it into the +oozing sand. More he could not do; if the waves swept her out again, +that was beyond his power to remedy. He staggered from the boat toward +the tide-line and the grass beyond. When the sand grew firm under his +feet, he fell nerveless to the beach, a spent man. And there he lay +perhaps five or ten minutes, like a stranded jellyfish. + +It was done. The thing was done. He was ashore in Carnglass, and a +whole man, though shivering and shaking with the reaction from his +fright among the needles. Perhaps the game, after all, might be worth +the candle. + +As some strength returned to him, his first thought was for the +dinghy, in which his knapsack lay. Her anchor having held, the little +boat rested askew upon the sand; he must have come in at the very +flood of the tide, for already the combers broke further out, and the +dinghy’s bows were altogether out of the water. Reeling to the boat’s +side, Logan hauled out the knapsack and then plodded up the beach to +the place where the heather and the gorse began to grow. He was in +a kind of cove or pocket between thousand-foot cliffs, a triangle +of land sloping steeply upward toward a third range of cliff at the +back; and upon the face of that rearward cliff, not so beetling as +its sea-neighbors, he thought he could make out the faint line of an +ancient path. + +Something more welcome, however, now huddled close before him: a line +of low rubble walls, the work of man. These were primitive cottages, +no doubt the clachan of Dalcruach. They were larochs, roofless ruins, +deserted these many years. + +All but one. Toward the end of the row of forlorn dwellings, a single +thatched roof remained, kept secure against the Hebridean gales by a +wide-meshed net spread over the rough thatch and anchored by big stones +lashed to the net-ends. The hut had no chimney, but only a hole in the +middle of the thatch; it had no windows, and a single door; this must +be the “black house” of the Isles, one of those Viking-age cottages +still inhabited, squat, thick-walled, snug, out of the childhood of the +race. People dwelt in them still, Logan had been told, here and there +in Uist and Barra. And this one might be the cottage of the keeper or +gillie that Colin MacLeod had mentioned. Incautious in his weariness, +Logan limped to the heavy door and pounded. No one answered: the +hut seemed to be as empty as its roofless neighbors. And then Logan +observed that the door had been secured by a padlock and hasp, but +the hasp had been ripped away from the door-frame, the screws hanging +impotent in their holes. Lifting the latch, Logan entered. + +Yes, it was a black house. Lacking proper fireplace or chimney, the +peat smoke had eddied round the single room for centuries, perhaps, +turning stone walls and beams and thatch to ebony. But it was dry, +and it was furnished. There were a table and shelves, and a chair or +two, and a heap of dry peats by the rough hearth below the gap in the +thatch. And in a corner stood that rare object, the old-fashioned +cotter’s closet-bed, built of boards up to the roof to keep off the +draughts, with only a wide hole for the occupant to crawl in upon his +mattress, and a curtain over that aperture. Logan pulled back the +curtain. There was no one inside, but there were decent blankets upon +the bed. Feeling like Goldilocks in the house of the Three Bears, Logan +flung down his pack. + +Some dry bits of driftwood lay by the peats. Logan tested the +cigar-lighter he had kept in an inner pocket of his jacket, to see +if it would work; it still would. Making a little heap of kindling +upon the hearth, he banked peats about it, and lit a fire; in three or +four minutes, some of the brown and springy squares of peat had begun +to smoulder, and Logan piled more peat upon them to keep the fire +going while he slept. Only then did he throw off his drenched clothes, +laying them upon a chair near the fire, and drag himself naked into the +venerable bed, rolling deep into its blankets. Swiftly Logan sank into +unconsciousness. + + * * * * * + +The sea-water having affected his watch, Logan could not tell what time +it was, precisely, when at length he woke; but surely it was well into +the afternoon. Some vigor had returned to his body. The slow-burning +peats still glowed upon the hearth; the house was warm, and thick with +the sweet smoke; daylight--the sun must be free of the clouds for a +time--came through the smoke-gap in the thatch. There was no sound +but the unending wash of the sea upon the beach, deadened here by the +thickness of the walls of rubble. His clothes, still very damp but +wearable, lay faintly steaming on the chair by the fire. This was the +loneliest spot Logan ever had known. + +Having dressed, Logan turned out the contents of his knapsack, which +had not suffered badly from the sea. A pair of binoculars he had bought +before leaving America was intact, and he had his shaving-things, and +the ordnance-map and old Balmullo’s pamphlet, and what mattered most +to him, the thermos of coffee, Colin’s bottle of whiskey, and the big +parcel of sandwiches from the hotel. Of those sandwiches, he promptly +ate all but a reserve of two. Pouring the coffee into a pan he found +upon the shelves, he set it to warm by the peats. Life was liveable +again. And opening the door with the broken hasp, Logan went out into +the Carnglass afternoon. + +The ghostly clachan of Dalcruach lay silent in a cul-de-sac formed +by the sea, the two sea-cliffs, and the inland cliff. Just now the +sun was peeping through the gray blanket above. Everywhere water was +running: little torrents foamed from the lip of the cliffs, and springs +sent tiny streams down to the rocky bay, through gorse and heather +and bracken. Between cliffs and tide, this bit of lowland must have +been cultivated intensively for centuries, but now a towering forest +of green bracken, high as Logan’s head, came right down to the backs +of the ruined cottages. Except for some gulls, the only animate thing +which Logan could see was a shape high up the face of the landward +cliff: a goat, or perhaps a deer. Primroses already flowered upon the +cliff-face. Upon these scanty and isolated acres, a little village of +MacAskivals had subsisted from time out of mind. But they were gone, +and Logan stood in this wet green desolation as if he were the last man +on earth. + +He went down to the dinghy. The receding tide had left her high enough, +but soon the sea would return; so he took off shoes and stockings and +tried to drag her to a more sheltered place by a shelf of rock that ran +up from the skerries into the silver sands of the beach. But though he +bailed her out, she was too heavy for him; only the tide could budge +her. Her oars he carried back to the black house. And now he would make +his way across the island to the Old House, before evening came. The +sun had withdrawn again, but surely he could find his way up the cliff, +despite the mists, and so across brae and valley and hill to the Old +House and Lady MacAskival. Already he had been nearly six days on the +way. + +Sitting on a boulder by the door of the black house, he examined +the ordnance survey map of Carnglass, Daldour, and the waters round +about. Carnglass really was a peculiar island. A ring of tremendous +cliffs seemed to guard her from the sea at all points, except here +at Dalcruach and at Askival harbor, a larger opening at the opposite +extremity of Carnglass, away to the southwest. To judge by the +contour-lines, these sea-cliffs also had an inner face, standing some +five hundred feet high above a kind of central valley or moor. Halfway +between Dalcruach and the Old House by Askival harbor, this valley was +interrupted by a tall, sharp hill, ridges from which extended across +the valley to the cliffs on either side of the island, a sort of +watershed. + +As the gull flies, it could not be more than three miles from Dalcruach +to the Old House. But there was the hard climb of the landward cliff +behind Dalcruach; then the valley or moor would be boggy; and the ridge +in the middle of the island must be surmounted; and between that ridge +and the Old House were some markings which Logan took to indicate a bad +bog. The trip would require some hours, and he had best set off. The +dotted line of a minor path, on the map, suggested that some track ran +across the island, but surely nothing like a road. Then Logan took up +his thorn stick and began the ascent of the landward cliff. + +Up this dim path, surely little but sheep, goats, and deer had gone +for many years. Here and there a hazel bush clung to the cliff’s edge. +Though the day was cool, that sharp climb made Logan pant. After half +an hour, he was at the summit, and much of Carnglass spread out before +him--or would have been visible, had not the mist been growing thicker. +He could make out the big hill--on the map it was called Mucaird--in +the middle of the island, but the ridge and hill would have shut off +Old House and New House, even had the day been clear. As a gust of wind +in this high place dissolved the fog for a few moments, he glimpsed +a derelict farm or sheep-steading nestled against Mucaird. And the +valley between him and the high hill was not an even plateau, but +rugged and broken with spurs of rock, though the bracken waved over +the higher parts of it. He turned his glasses toward the south. There, +across the deep blue of the Sound of Carnglass, lay the low isle of +Daldour. + +Now he would have to descend the inner face of the cliff, perhaps four +hundred feet high, to the green valley: a descent more precarious than +the climb from Dalcruach, for boulders lay tumbled upon the inner face, +as if ready to fall to the valley floor, and their shapes were hidden +by a dense growth of fern. He must step with care. Down he started. + +But about three boulders down, he halted again. The mist--here it hung +cloud-like--lay just over his head, the sunlight coming through in a +dim religious way. At the moment, the valley beneath him, nevertheless, +was quite clear of fog. And almost straight down, in the part of the +valley at the foot of his cliff, men were moving. Logan turned his +binoculars upon them. + +Away to his left, a small puppet that must be a very big man was +running frantically across the valley floor, just here rocky and bare. +Some two hundred yards behind him, three other men trotted. These were +armed men: it was rifles they seemed to be carrying. None of them were +looking upward toward Logan. One of the three halted, knelt, brought +his gun to his shoulder, and fired. The report echoed uncannily from +the cliffs. He had shot at the big man leaping toward the further +rocks: there could be no doubt of it. + +But the big man was not hit. He had reached some boulders near the +southern cliff, and now crouched behind one of them, drawing something +from the long cloak or coat he wore. As his three pursuers came on--the +man must have been hidden from their view, Logan thought--a report +came from behind the cluster of boulders: the big man had a pistol. +Immediately after firing, the man in the coat darted on to the next +clump of boulders, and waited there. Stooping and taking what cover +they could in the bracken, his three adversaries cautiously pushed +forward, about ten yards from one another. The big man held the +advantage of higher ground. As the three neared the rocks he had just +left, and so came within range of his pistol, the big man fired a +second time. Now the three pursuers fell flat on their faces, for the +bullet seemed to have ricocheted against a boulder perilously close to +the foremost rifleman. And taking advantage of their discomfiture, the +big man scrambled on toward the mouth of a small ravine that appeared +to twist into the southern cliff. + +Swinging his glasses toward the three riflemen, Logan thought he caught +some movement to _their_ rear. He focused the binoculars. Though he +could not be sure, it seemed to him that someone or something was +stealthily drawing closer, through bracken and gorse, to the three +men. Whatever it might be--and if it was not an optical illusion--it +kept hid in the green stuff; no head ever showed. If there, it must be +moving on all fours, beast-like; what one detected was not a form, but +a trail of movement through the dense bracken, to be discerned only by +an observer who, like Logan, was perched high above. + +Logan looked back toward the big man, who was just disappearing into +the gully or den at the southern cliff. Two of the pursuers, who +now had got to their feet, fired at him as they stood. The big man +stumbled, recovered, and was gone into the recess. And the riflemen +resumed, at a walk, their tracking. Then the bank of mist settled over +Logan’s head and lower into the valley, cutting Logan off from sight +of whatever was happening below. He heard two more shots, though; and +then silence followed. Through all this, no human voice had drifted up +to him. + +Logan clung astonished to his perch. Here in Carnglass were wheels +within wheels. He had suspected something was amiss in the island: but +to discover, as if he were an Olympian looking down upon the follies +of humankind, this curious sport of island man-hunting was bewildering +even to Hugh Logan, who had been around. This, after all, was a +small corner of Great Britain, in the year of Our Lord one thousand +nine hundred and sixty. In Mutto’s Wynd, his own struggle with Jock +Anderson’s gang conceivably might have been only a chance encounter; +and even if it had been part of someone’s design, no more had been +meant, perhaps, than a brutal robbery. The sinister-ludicrous figure of +Captain Gare had come to him at Oban through no chance encounter, but +that insubstantial personality had vanished before a little chaffing. +This affair in the valley of Carnglass was deadly serious--this +stalking of a man as if he were a rabbit. And Logan had not the +faintest notion of what pursuers and pursued might be. + +So what should he do now? The mist, reinforced by a light rain, had +become so dense below him that the remaining descent of the cliff, +in these conditions, would be almost foolhardy until some sunlight +worked its way through. In any event, what with this delay, it seemed +improbable that he could make his way to the Old House before sunset. +And, judging from the silent hunters far below, to knock at the gate +of the Old House after sunset might be highly imprudent. Logan did not +relish the thought of being taken for the big man with the pistol, +supposing that person still to be in the land of the living. Besides, +the quarry might be doubling back across the valley by this time, +and for Logan to descend unknown into that scene from the Inferno, +with bullets flying, wasn’t the best policy for a rising man of law. +Everything considered, he had better creep back along the dim path +to Dalcruach, and there spend another night in the black house, +even though this must mean he had taken a full week to reach Lady +MacAskival. He could make a safer start early in the morning; perhaps +Lady MacAskival’s demoniac gillies did not hunt before breakfast. And +there was a queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. It was thoroughly +improbable that any man would try to make his way over the cliff to +Dalcruach this evening, what with fog, wind, and the clammy emptiness +of the dead clachan in the cul-de-sac. + +So Logan, still marvelling, shuffled carefully back toward Dalcruach, +where he could enjoy the peat fire, and eat his remaining sandwiches, +and write some memoir of this past week to post to Duncan MacAskival +when the business was accomplished. He had found a kerosene lamp on one +of the shelves, with fuel still in it. He might even read a bit in old +Balmullo, for the sake of settling his nerves. Though the hasp was torn +loose, the heavy door could be barred from within by a balk of sea-worn +timber that fitted into holes on either side of the door-frame; and +Logan did bar it. Now no one could get at him suddenly except through +the thatch of the roof. And if folk outside did not know Logan to be +unarmed, they would think twice about bursting blindly through the +roof. Lighting the lamp, Logan took some sheets of paper--somewhat +blurred and dampened by water--from a pad in his pack, settled himself +at the table, and began to write with his ball-point pen. + +He would save the sandwiches until he had finished writing. He was +hungry, though; and despite the moist air, his throat felt dry. Logan +put down his pen, threw his oilskin over his shoulders, and went out +to the spring that bubbled only ten yards from the door. Coming back +with a full pail, he drank deep and put the rest of the water--tasting +faintly of peat--by the shelves. He drew up the chair and resumed his +writing. + +Then a deep voice spoke behind him. “Will you be a writer, or a +philosophist?” the voice said. + +Upsetting his chair, Logan sprang nimbly round to face the voice. He +saw a very big man in a drenched ragged overcoat; and in the man’s +massive fist was a little old pistol, held steadily. The big man was +bareheaded and bald-headed: a sloping dome of a head, with strong +flattish features, battered and seared, and a broad, full-lipped mouth. +Blood was caked all down one cheek of that hard face, and seemed still +to be oozing from a gash high on the bald skull, where a little flap of +skin fell away from the bone. + +Logan’s visitor stood gigantic in the shadows, close by the boxed +bed; probably he had hidden there. “Don’t move your hands,” the deep +voice said. “I’m Seamus Donley: so don’t move your hands. I said to +you, ‘Will you be a writer, or a philosophist?’ Or, now, will you be a +police-detective?” + +Immobile, Logan thought he detected some humor in that wide mouth. +“Good evening, Mr. Donley,” Logan said. “Put away that toy, and eat a +sandwich with me.” + +“Turn round, Mr. Police-Detective,” Donley told him, “and hold your +hands high.” There was nothing else Logan could do; besides, if the man +had meant to shoot him in the back, he could have done that already. +Donley’s rough hands ran over and into Logan’s pockets. “Now where +might your gun be, Mr. Police-Detective? Your friend Seamus has looked +in your rucksack and in the bed already.” This was a wild Irishman: the +brogue was pronounced, and possibly a little exaggerated, as if Donley +strove for effect. + +“I have no gun, Mr. Donley.” + +“Swing round again and let me look at you,” Donley grunted. He had +stepped back a pace, by way of precaution, but in the lamp-light Logan +saw clearly enough the reckless, not ill-natured face of a man in late +middle age; and below that face an immense barrel-chest and powerful +arms. The gun man must stand nearly six feet six. “Faith,” Donley went +on, “I come near to believing you. You’ve the look of innocence. But +whatever were they thinking of to send an acolyte of a police-detective +after Jackman’s fellows? Now listen to me, Mr. Police-Detective: if +you’ve a gun about you, fetch it out, for you need it as much as yours +truly, Seamus Donley. Would the lads in the Republican Army ever have +believed that old Seamus should be asking a police-detective to help +him? Sure, it’s your life, man, as much as mine. We can’t tell but +Jackman’s chaps might be at the door this living minute.” + +“I don’t understand you, Mr. Donley, and I didn’t bring a gun.” + +Donley scowled. “Saints in heaven! Now’s no time for playing little +games, Mr. Police-Detective. This is not London. Those fellows would +put you over the cliff as quick as myself. That’s what they did with +Lagg; but you can’t know that. You know me: any police-detective knows +Seamus Donley, that lay in Derry gaol four hard years, breaking out +last Christmas. Do you think it’s myself would be telling you my own +name, and showing you my own face, if we’d no need for standing back to +back? A fine young police-detective you are! Here, now: I’ll send Meg +to bed.” He thrust the gun back inside his coat. “There, I’m trusting +you, Mr. Police-Detective, and you must be after trusting me. We’ll +put out the light, for ’tis a standing invite to Jackman and his bully +boys.” Donley blew out the wick. “And we’ll trample the turfs.” Donley +crushed under his boots most of the peats, and tossed ashes over the +rest of the fire, leaving only a faint glow. “These three days gone, +Mr. Police-Detective, Jackman’s gang have let me be after dark, but +they might change; and there’s others might come.” + +Logan groped about the table in the dark. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you +much refreshment, Seamus Donley, but there are two sandwiches left, and +most of a bottle of whiskey. Why do you take me for a detective?” + +“I’d have eaten and drunk your victuals before now, Mr. +Police-Detective, but you gave me no time. I’d but a moment to slip +through your door and into your bed while you were at the well. A fine +young police-detective you are! But Donley’s not the man to let his +host go hungry.” He handed back half a sandwich to Logan, wolfing the +others. “And the poteen: that’s the medicine for myself when I’ve been +three days and nights in caves and bogs. One morning I caught a rabbit +and ate it raw, and another time I cut a sheep’s throat and had a +supper of the bloody ribs; but for the rest, it was birds’ eggs got on +the cliffs and sucked on the run, and a few shellfish I pulled from the +rocks on this very beach.” + +Logan--his eyes had adjusted fairly well to the dark now--brought two +tumblers from the shelves and filled them with whiskey. “Your health, +Mr. Seamus Donley.” + +The Irishman chuckled. “There’s this to be said, young fellow my +lad: you’re a cool police-detective. And how do I know you’re a +police-detective? Why, what else might you be? It’s not an Englishman +that you are, though--there’s that for you. I’m thinking you’ll be an +Edinburgh man.” + +He might get more information out of Donley, Logan reflected, if he did +not try to dispel this illusion. “More whiskey, Mr. Donley? Of course. +And what is it I can do for you?” + +Donley drained at a gulp his second tumbler of whiskey. He had taken +a chair opposite Logan, and sat relaxed, though watchful: a hardened +customer. “Why, just this, Mr. Police-Detective: first we’ll take +those oars of yours out of this hovel, and then we’ll launch that boat +of yours between the two of us, with myself inside, and then it’s +Seamus for Scotland and Mr. Police-Detective back to his but-and-ben in +Carnglass--back to Hell, that is.” + +Upon the thatch the rain fell heavily now, and the wind has risen. “You +have turned daft, Seamus Donley,” Logan said. “Listen to that wind. +You’d never get over the skerries in that little old boat this night, +let alone row to the mainland. Daldour would be the best you might hope +for.” + +“Daldour?” Donley snorted. “And land among the heathens? Why not the +Cannibal Isles? Besides, there I would rot in Daldour till you, Mr. +Police-Detective, might choose to come for me in the police-launch. No, +it’s not Derry gaol for Seamus. It’s a Kerry man I am, and as good a +boatman as any in these islands--born by Bantry Bay. No, I’ll be hid +in Glasgow or Birmingham or Liverpool before you report to the Chief +Constable, my boy--supposing that ever you get clear from Carnglass, +which I do very much misdoubt.” + +“If you must be fool enough to go boating this night, Mr. Donley, then +wait an hour on the chance of the wind falling. The boat’s light enough +for you and me to get her afloat, even so: the tide must be up beyond +her now. The risk of this wind is greater than the risk of low water on +the skerries.” + +Bending forward, Donley gave Logan a light approving tap on the +shoulder. “For a police-detective, you’re a decent sort. What would +your name be?” + +Logan told him. + +“See here, Mr. Detective Logan: I’ll wait that hour, but no more. +Never would I have guessed a police-detective would have a regard for +Seamus Donley’s skin. And see here: you’d best come with me. If you’ll +give myself your word of honor bright--you’re no Englishman, that +I’ll say--to grant myself twelve hours pursuit-free once we set foot +ashore, then it’s Seamus who’ll set you in Scotland safe, Mr. Scots +Detective, and shake your hand at parting.” + +“No, thank you, Seamus Donley,” Logan answered, “but I’ve business in +Carnglass. Lady MacAskival will see that I get to Oban or Glasgow, when +the business is done.” + +“Lady MacAskival! Do you think they’d let you see her, or that +the Old One gives orders today? And even were they all saints in +Carnglass, they’ve no boat to put at the service of one Mr. Logan, +Police-Detective, with a face like the cherubim. Was it not my fire +that fetched you here?” + +“What fire?” + +A note of pique came into Donley’s voice. “Then you will have known of +Jackman’s doings earlier, and I’ve had half my labor in vain. I might +have told Jackman that what with his crew, the police were sure to find +him out. ’Tis this: I burnt the yacht and wrecked the launch three +nights gone. That was for spiting and hindering Jackman. And I had +hopes of folk spying the fire and sending word to shore.” + +“Then they’ve had no communication with the mainland for three days?” +This, Logan thought, could explain the confusion of Dowie and Gare. + +“Three days? What with the storm, Jackman’s sent no messages, nor got +any, all this week. The wireless is a wreck. Jackman will be raging +like an imp from the Pit, that oily limb of Satan. Oh, he’ll be cursing +the day he crossed Seamus Donley.” + +He might worm the whole story gradually out of Donley, Logan hoped: it +was clear enough that Donley assumed he already knew a good deal of it. +“Tell me this, Mr. Donley, while we’re waiting here: what state are +matters in at the Old House?” + +“Do you take me for an informer?” The heavy voice, there in the smoky +darkness, took on an ominous tone. It never would do to forget that +Donley must be a thoroughly dangerous man. + +“I take you for a man who’s been tricked, Mr. Seamus Donley, and who +needs what aid he can find. While we’re on that topic, I’ll do what +I can for that bloody spot on your head. Did a bullet come close to +finishing you?” A little light shone from the peats, and by it Logan +set to washing the wound and bandaging it with two clean handkerchiefs +from his knapsack. Donley, gritting his teeth, seemed to trust Logan +sufficiently to let him do the job, though he kept one hand upon the +pistol within his coat. Logan put back the flap of skin upon the skull +and improvised a kind of scarf-bandage that probably would not endure +long; he washed the caked blood from Donley’s lined face. + +“No, that was a damned fall this afternoon, when Ferd was shooting at +me, Mr. Detective Logan. In all my years with the I.R.A., I never came +so close to my end. But I’ll even scores, trust Seamus for that.” + +The man had not winced much during the bandaging. “Keep your hand in, +my boy, and in no time you’ll be as fine a doctor as any at Dublin, or +as Jackman himself. Jackman will be no true physician, but I’ll not +need to be telling you that, Mr. Police-Detective. ’Tis a doctor of +philosophy he’ll be, University of Leningrad, or Moscow. Yet I’m not +the man to be stinting anyone of his praise: Jackman’s clever with +splints and medicines, and all else under the sun. A clever child, +Edmund Jackman. Jackman it was that drew me out of Derry gaol, he +having use for me. Jackman it was, sure, but not for Seamus’ sake. For +doing the Devil’s work, there’ll be none better than Jackman.” + +“And what,” Logan continued as he adjusted the clumsy bandage, “is life +like at the Old House?” + +“Well, now, Mr. Detective Logan, do you mind that bit in Dante’s +Inferno where old Dante and Vergil observe the stewing of the frauds +in the chasms? That’ll be your reception at the Old House, and if +you’ve a brain in your skull, Mr. Logan, you’ll be jumping into the +little boat with Seamus and making for your headquarters. You’ll +require a dozen constables with rifles, or more, to take Jackman’s +gang.” + +Despite his brogue--which, Logan suspected, was in part the affectation +of a virulent Irish nationalist, or of whimsy--Donley had not spoken +like an unschooled man; and this literary allusion confirmed Logan’s +surmise. “I think you’re what you Irish call a ‘spiled praist,’ Seamus +Donley.” + +“Sure, never a praist,” Donley answered, grinning, “not myself. Yet I +had some inclination after being a monk, and a lay-brother I was for +nine praying months, in Sligo, till the love of the drink and the love +of the girls undid me. Jackman was after calling me ‘Father Seamus’: +he’s eyes in his head, more eyes by one than most men. His boy Ferd +was for giving me a third eye for myself.” Here the gunman gingerly +touched his bandaged forehead. “Ferd will be the deadliest of Jackman’s +imps, as you’ll find to your sorrow; do you watch sharp for him. ’Tis +the Maltese Cat I call him. Swift with a gun, and swift with a knife. +And Jackman sent him to the Old One for a cook at the Old House! Ferd +has virtue as a cook, no denying: the father of him keeps a little +eating-house in Soho. But Ferd’s better at murthering than cooking.” + +“How many others are in the Old House?” + +Again Donley filled his tumbler of whiskey. “Jackman himself, and that +walking cadaver Royall, that he calls his secretary--the only other +political man in the lot. Then there will be five manservants, or a +set of cutthroats that Jackman pawned off on the Old One for servants: +butler, footman, gardener, gardener’s boy (a broth of a boy!) and a +fellow that passes for stableman or cowman. I was the keeper or gillie. +Then there are three men for the yacht and the launch, all Jackman’s +pick: I singed the whiskers of one of them, Harry Till, a Liverpool +longshoreman, and he may be at death’s door, praise be to the saints. +Because Jackman told them so, the Old One and the Young One turned off +all the old servants, even the laborers at the farm; Lagg sent his +wife back to Galloway, and at the end, he was living in a room or two +by himself at the New House. Except for the Old One and the Young One, +there’s but one woman in Carnglass, and that’s a poor shawlie, old +Agnes with the arthritis, fit for no better than scrubbing floors and +carrying trays to the Old One. So the odds will be ten or eleven to +one against Mr. Police-Detective, as they’ve been against myself these +three days past. Come away, Mr. Detective Logan: yourself would last +two days less than Seamus has.” + +“Do you mean that Lagg is dead?” + +Donley shifted uneasily. “Mind this, Mr. Logan: ’tis no doing of mine. +What could be done to help Lagg, the old toad, I did. Nor did I see him +die. They took him beyond the Chapel, to the highest of the cliffs, +and they did not bring him back. ’Twas Seamus was meant to do the job, +but I was one too many for even Dr. Edmund Jackman. Should ever there +be a trial, and should yourself and myself come alive out of this, Mr. +Logan, you’ll bear that in memory.” + +“If I’m to bear witness for you, Seamus, perhaps you’ll tell me the +details of your part in the business.” + +Donley sighed. “Never did I think myself would turn informer, but that +comes of the keeping of ill company. Not that Jackman and Royall will +be common criminals: they’re uncommon enough. The rest will not be +politicals, only hard cases that Jackman has some clutch upon. As for +myself, Mr. Detective Logan, I never took a penny that was not mine, +unless on Army orders.” + +Getting up abruptly, Donley went to the door and put his ear against +it. “The wind is high still,” he said, “and sure they never will come +to us in such dark as this--not Jackman’s town crew. But ’tis my nerves +that are on edge, Mr. Logan: three days with next to nothing in my +belly, mind, so that there have been times when I thought more people +than Jackman’s were walking in Carnglass. A damned island. Well, then, +my autobiography, or a bit of it, Mr. Police-Detective. Much good may +the telling of it do you, or myself.” Thrusting his chair toward the +smouldering fire, Donley warmed his boots. What little light there was +played upon his scarred face. And Hugh Logan listened. + + + + +5 + + +“Belfast it was where I met with Davie Anderson,” Donley began, “a +Glasgow razor-slasher of blasphemous conversation. Taking up with +him was folly, Mr. Logan, but I’d small choice. The Republican +Army--mollycoddles they are these days, to a man--would do nothing for +me but hide me a week or two, and that with ill grace. + +“‘You’re impulsive, Donley,’ said they to me. I do believe they wished +me back in Derry gaol. And who was it that blew the bridge ten years +past? And who was it that was at the lighting of the fires in Belfast, +to show the Luftwaffe where to drop their bombs? Why, Seamus Donley, +none other. The Germans were nothing to myself, nor Jackman and his +politics, neither; but it was enough for me that the English would +catch it. + +“No, the I.R.A. never sent the files that took me out of Derry gaol, +nor the money, nor the motorcar, though at the time I took it for their +work. Jackman it was: Jackman knew Seamus Donley for a man to handle +the explosives.” He poured more whiskey. + +“When Davie Anderson came to me, I said I would do Jackman’s work for +Jackman’s pay. A month ago it was that they brought me to Carnglass, +and made me gamekeeper, and showed me the explosives, and told me the +work I was to do, when the time came. Davie Anderson! Davie Anderson! +Once let me come in reach of you, Davie Anderson, and you’ll seduce no +more honest rebels.” + +“Does Davie Anderson have a brother Jock, in the Gallowgate of +Glasgow?” Logan put in. + +“That has he, Mr. Detective Logan. I perceive you’re not so innocent +as you seem, not by half. A bad case, either Davie or Jock, like all +Jackman’s lot. Nine-tenths criminals, and but one-tenth politicals. +And that political tenth not my patriotic politics. ’Tis a rough life +I’ve led, Mr. Logan, and I’m no man for small scruples. But needless +murthering, unpolitical murthering, never suited my fancy. And in the +murthering of women I will have no part, not even the murthering of old +witches. And Jackman’s plan it was, or I’m a Black and Tan, to lay the +slaughter to Seamus Donley’s account.” + +“What good would killing women be to Jackman?” Logan asked. + +“There’s no need for you to play the cherub with me, Mr. +Police-Detective. ’Twas the money, of course: all that money. ’Tis not +for his own self’s sake Jackman seeks the money, but to ingratiate +himself again with his party. Sure, and didn’t they cast him out for +a premature deviationist, and for the wild things he’d done? But the +money, and the spying about the islands, and the explosives under the +new installations--faith, if that thing might be done, the party would +take him back, soon enough. A risky work it is, but if Jackman does it +well, all’s kisses. And the party is all Jackman’s life, he being a +political through and through: that I’ll say for him. Jackman and his +boys never told me, for never did they trust me, nor I them. But I’ve +eyes in my head, Mr. Detective Logan, and a brain for right reasoning. +When the time came, the women must die. And if ever it came to the +prisoner in the box, who would they have for scapegoat? Why, old +Seamus Donley, that’s a fugitive from English justice.” + +“And did Lagg know of this?” + +“Tam Lagg took Jackman’s money two years and more. Yet the murthering +never came into Lagg’s thick wits, I do believe, until a month ago. +To help Jackman to bully the Old One into making him her heir was one +thing; to plot murther was another. And treason, too. Lagg’s was no +stomach for such tactics. But where could Tam Lagg turn? He could not +get ashore, nor even post a letter, without Jackman’s leave. When Lagg +saw what I had seen, and thought the thoughts I had thought--concerning +the plot for murther, I mean--he took fright. Jackman sees through a +man as if flesh were glass, and Jackman will have known this month past +that Lagg could be trusted no more. + +“Then Jackman was the cat, and Lagg the mouse. And Jackman and his boys +watched Lagg by day and by night. When they caught Lagg lighting the +fire behind the hill, they made an end of him.” + +“What sort of fire, Donley?” + +“Why, the fire that might have been seen by folk in Daldour, to bring +them over from curiosity; but it never came to a blaze. That afternoon +I sat by my cottage at the New House, mending rabbit-snares--for they +had lodged me in the keeper’s cottage, as if they feared to have +me much about the Old House, near the gelignite--when Jackman came +striding up, and with him Royall and Davie Anderson and Rab, that holy +terror of a boy. Three days ago it was, but for old Seamus it seems +like three years, what with the hiding and the running and the starving +since. + +“‘Donley,’ Jackman says to me, in his quiet wicked way, ‘come along. +We’re hunting today.’ + +“‘Then I’ll be wanting my shotgun, Dr. Jackman,’ I say to him. But he +shakes his misbegotten head. + +“‘No, Donley, you old ruffian,’ says he, ‘we’ve guns enough for this +hunting of ours.’ And I see that Rab and Davie have rifles slung over +their shoulders. Jackman himself carries no weapon ever, they say; and +sure I’ve not seen him with any. ’Tis terror that he carries. + +“So up I get, as you see me now, bareheaded and in my coat, and tramp +round with Jackman and his boys to the shoulder of the hill they call +Mucaird, and over the shoulder till we come close up to the broken +farmhouse there. And from within the house, smoke is beginning to rise. + +“‘Hush, gentlemen,’ whispers Jackman. ‘We must not disturb the factor +at his little games.’ In through the empty doorway we creep; and there +crouches that fat toad Lagg, his back to us, feeding a fire in a +corner, pouring petrol on a heap of trash, so as to set the whole ruin +ablaze. A noble beacon it would have made. + +“Jackman grins his devil-grin. ‘Good day, Mr. Lagg,’ says he. ‘You’re a +warm friend, Mr. Lagg.’ + +“Tam Lagg squeals like a pig when you come with the butchering-knife, +and jumps round: a gross ugly man in corduroys, his face red and puffy +always, but now white as a cadaver’s. ‘Dr. Jackman!’ he squeals. ‘Dr. +Jackman!’ And he can say no more, for there is no more to be said. + +“‘Yes, your old patron, Dr. Jackman,’ that Beelzebub tells him. ‘I +assume that you’re weary of our company, Mr. Lagg.’ Davie and Rab tramp +out the fire in the damp roofless room, while Lagg crouches by the wall +like a trapped hare. + +“‘Even the fondest of friends must part, Mr. Lagg,’ says Jackman, +cheery as a cat with a rotten mackerel, ‘and you’re come to the end of +your tether, my good and faithful servant.’ Then Davie and Rab take +Lagg by the arms and fling him upon the rubbish, and Davie unslings his +rifle. + +“‘For God’s sake, Dr. Jackman,’ says Lagg, puffing and weeping, ‘I’ve +an auld wifie in Galloway, by Gatehouse of Fleet, and four bairns. And +this is a civilized land.’ + +“‘Why, Donley’s compatriots have a phrase that fits your situation, +Mr. Lagg,’ smiles Jackman. ‘“What’s all the world to a man,” the Irish +say, “when his wife’s a widdy?” You’ll never be missed, Lagg. You’ll +have been lost at sea, merrily fishing. These are wild waters round +Carnglass. And as for civilized lands--why, “had ye been where I ha’ +been, and seen wha’ I ha’ seen”--eh, Thomas Lagg? This is the end of +an old refrain for you. I never took to your red face. And even if I +wished to spare you, still there would be the problem of morale among +my associates here, wouldn’t there? There’s nothing like an execution +or two to encourage the others. And Lady MacAskival will be so obliging +as to write to the police concerning your sad disappearance at sea.’ +He’s in love with dying--other men’s dying--is Jackman. + +“It came to me then, Mr. Logan, that when my usefulness to Jackman +was done, Jackman and his boys would crowd old Seamus into some such +corner. There’s no honor among the lot of them. Lagg and Seamus were +outsiders. And that man Lagg did cry so, lying there in the smouldering +rubbish. David pokes him with the muzzle of his rifle, and Jackman +gloats, like a sloat down a rabbit’s burrow. I was standing behind +the crowd of them. ‘Though the creature’s a Presbyterian,’ I say to +Jackman, ‘at the least you’ll grant him a moment for his prayers.’ And +that said, I whisk out Meg here.” Donley patted the revolver inside his +coat. “Jackman’s lot never had known I kept Meg under my arm. + +“They all turn to face me, Davie with the rifle half raised. ‘Davie +Anderson,’ say I, ‘drop it!’ And Davie lets the gun fall, for he +knows the reputation of Seamus Donley. Rab’s rifle is slung over his +shoulder; Royall’s pistol is in his pocket. Yet it is four to one. +Jackman’s devil-grin never changes. + +“‘Why, Father Seamus,’ he says, genteel as Brian Boru, ‘I presume you +aspire to the role of confessor.’ + +“‘No, I’m no priest, Jackman,’ say I. ‘Yet you’ll have the grace to +grant Lagg a moment for repentance, or ’tis myself will have another +Englishman’s life on my conscience.’ + +“‘I’ll humor your piety, Father Seamus,’ Jackman says, though his black +eyes are like hell-coals. ‘Mr. Lagg, to your devotions.’ + +“Lagg grovels in the dirt, moaning; and if he prays, the words run all +together; and as for myself, I am too bent on watching Jackman and the +rest to listen to him. A long minute it was, Mr. Logan. + +“Jackman looks at his wrist-watch. ‘_Pax vobiscum_,’ says he, ever so +sneering. ‘And now, Father Seamus, seeing that you have your little +gun conveniently in your Fenian paw, perhaps you will be so kind as to +administer the _coup de grace_ to our old comrade here.’ The eyes of +those four murtherers are turned on myself like dogs round a badger. + +“‘Jackman,’ I tell him, ‘may I screech in Hell if I lift a finger in +this bloody business.’ + +“‘Perhaps, in any event, Mr. Lagg would prefer a cold plunge,’ Jackman +says, smoothly. Lagg does no more than look at me, gasping and choking, +as if I were the king of glory. But the odds are four to one, Mr. +Logan, and Seamus has himself to think of, and Lagg was a tricky old +toad. + +“‘Being but one man, Jackman,’ say I, ‘I cannot hinder you. Yet you’ll +not harm the rascal in my sight.’ + +“‘As you wish, Reverend Father.’ And Jackman nods to Rab and Davie. +They take Lagg by the arms, he screaming out my name the while, and +drag him through the doorway; and Royall picks up Davie’s rifle, though +careful not to lift it high nor point it toward old Seamus. ‘Donley,’ +Jackman murmurs, as he follows them out the door, ‘go back to your +cottage. You and I must have a serious conversation later.’ + +“And they lead Lagg along the hill toward St. Merin’s Chapel and the +cliffs, he weak as water, while I watch them from an empty window, +being cautious not to show much of myself, lest Rab or Davie be +inclined toward a lucky shot. And soon the bracken swallows them. +Seamus has given Tam Lagg his minute of grace, and now Lagg must give +Seamus Donley his hour for action. + +“Jackman is cunning, think I to myself; but this once he’s reckoned +without his man. There were two things that I might try: first, to get +clean away from Carnglass, which would leave Jackman with no good hand +for the explosives, and no scapegoat; or second, to send up a signal +like the signal Lagg meant to make of that farmhouse, to call heed to +strange doings in Carnglass. Now being a runaway gaolbird, I preferred +the first method, Mr. Logan; and besides, ’tis the surer method; and it +might save the women, since what with Seamus gone to the mainland and +talking with whom he might, sure Jackman would think twice before doing +more murther. + +“So soon, then, as Jackman and the rest were out of sight, I ran down +the track toward the New House and Askival harbor--and the boats. Two +craft there were in the harbor, both Lady MacAskival’s, though she’d +scant need of them for her own self: a sixty-foot sailing yacht, +old but with an auxiliary engine, and a fast motor-launch, half +decked. Could I but get aboard either, and take it out of harbor--the +motor-launch would be the better--I might make land somewhere and be +out of sight before either Jackman or you darling police might say +Daniel O’Connell. + +“But somewhere there would be seven more of Jackman’s boys: Sam +Tompkins, a Cockney, with the grand title of butler--though he’s little +better than a pickpocket, and not to be dreaded; Ferd, the Cat o’ +Malta; a tinker-like fellow called Niven, that they’d made gardener; a +Lancashire rough, Simmons, the stableman. Then the three boatmen, all +out of Liverpool: Jim Powert, Harry Till, and Bill Carruthers. If the +gang should be at the Old House, all of them, well and good: I never +would try for the Old House, that being a strong place with but one +gate. And if there should be but a man or two at the harbor, my little +Meg and myself, between the two of us, might do their business. Now I’d +a shotgun at my cottage, and like enough Lagg had a gun or two in the +New House, unless Jackman had taken precautions. A shotgun or a rifle +in the hands of such a one as myself is worth half a dozen men, Mr. +Detective Logan, as I fancy you’ve heard tell. So it was to my cottage +that I ran first, not looking back toward St. Merin’s Chapel, nor +liking to think what might be done there on the cliffs. + +“All the way, I met no man. And my cottage was empty; but the shotgun +was gone. ‘Oho,’ say I to myself, ‘then Jackman will have a suspicion +of old Seamus, and will have left orders to keep a weather eye on him.’ +I stuffed my coat pockets with biscuits from a tin, for there was no +saying when I might dine again; and then, very quiet, I had a look +about the New House, which has a little fir-plantation between it and +the gamekeeper’s cottage. + +“As bad cess would have it, three men--Ferd, and Niven, and +Simmons--came out of the back gate of the New House when I looked that +way from the firs. They not spying me, I knelt there silent, and they +walked on toward the Old House, having locked the door behind them. +Simmons was carrying my own shotgun. These are dull dogs, Mr. Logan, +with no talent for hide-and-seek--though Ferd is sharp enough, but +being a Soho spiv, he’s out of his element in Carnglass. Once they were +gone, I trotted on to the harbor, just beyond the New House; they would +have taken the guns from the New House, for Ferd and Niven, too, had +been carrying weapons. Now it must be the boats for Seamus Donley, +with no help but little Meg. The night was coming down, praise be, and +I might creep along the quay safe enough, keeping behind a little low +breakwater that has a walk between it and the outer edge of the quay. + +“On the yacht a light was burning, and she lay hard up against the +stone quay, with the launch moored just beyond her. Two men were on +deck, worse luck, and there might be a third below; I thought I heard +his voice. And one of the men--Powert, I thought--had a rifle across +his knees as he sat there. ‘Seamus,’ say I in my head, ‘this must be +neatly done, if ’tis to be done at all.’ So back along the quay to +the harbor-head I make my way, like a mouse, and to the shed by the +quayside. They had forgot to lock the door. + +“Now if I might keep the men aboard the yacht with their hands full of +work, I might hope to take the launch; or, failing that, I might burn +both boats, making a beacon to be seen in Daldour or out to sea, and +vexing Jackman’s damned soul. In the shed, along with ropes and paints +and such, I found what I had hoped for, a tin of petrol and a brace of +empty bottles. And there were some oily bits of waste and rags on the +floor. You’ll have made a Molotov cocktail, Mr. Detective Logan? Now +that would have been a fine present for Dr. Jackman, considering his +political tastes; but I hadn’t the proper ingredients. And the real +explosives were tucked away at the Old House, beyond my reach. So the +bottles filled with petrol, and the waste and rags stuffed into the +mouths, would have to serve me. The matches I already had in my pocket. + +“With the bottles in my coat, back I go along the quay, keeping out of +sight. But close to the yacht, my foot strikes a stone, that tumbles +into the harbor with a splash. Powert and Carruthers, sitting on deck, +seem to be nervous as pregnant cats, for Powert springs up with his +rifle and calls out, ‘Who’s there?’ And he catches a glimpse of my +bald head above the dyke. ‘Donley,’ he sings, ‘if that’s you, show +yourself.’ + +“What with Powert’s rifle in his hands, it was a risky stratagem. Yet I +bob up from behind the dyke and lob the first burning bottle right for +the open hatch, Powert firing at me on the moment. Powert misses, but +the bottle sails true. Right down the companionway it falls, and in a +second flames come bursting up. And up comes another thing: Till, who +has been below decks. I see him as I toss the second bottle. His hair +and shirt are all afire, and him screaming like a mad thing. + +“The second bottle goes down the hatch, too, and more flames shoot +up; and then Carruthers takes panic and dives over the side into the +harbor, for I have lugged out Meg and sent a shot across the deck. +Powert runs aft for a fire-extinguisher, while Till rolls screaming +by the deck-house; but I try another shot at Powert, and he follows +Carruthers over the side, rifle and all, though I do not think I hit +him. If those three had kept their heads about them, they could have +put out the flames, but now it is too late. And now Seamus will have +his try at the launch; for below decks in the yacht, the fire from +the spattered petrol is gaining fine. Powert and Carruthers will have +struck out for the far side of the harbor, not liking the bark of +little old Meg in my paw. + +“It was down the slimy old quayside steps and into the launch I went +then. Ferd and the rest from the Old House would be upon me in a +matter of minutes, seeing the fire from the yacht; and then, too, the +yacht might explode, if there were fuel in her tanks, though she did +not burn so hard and fast as I might have liked. The mist being heavy +that night, it was odds against the fire being seen from land, unless +from Daldour, for Askival harbor lies snug among the cliffs; and the +weather was too much for any chance aircraft. + +“I tried the engine of the launch, but she was as dead as Lagg must +be. It may be they had taken the plug, or tampered with the wires, +Jackman being a man of forethought. Be it whatever, Mr. Logan, I could +do nothing with her. If there had been even oars, I would have put to +sea with no motor; but the launch was too big for rowing. One thing I +did find in the bows, for all that: a spanner. ‘Well, Seamus,’ I think, +‘if you’re not to have her, no more shall they.’ And with that spanner +I did abuse the engine so that no man might mend it, paying no heed to +the noise I made. + +“On the yacht’s deck, Till had made an end of his moaning, and I could +not see him; like enough he had fallen overboard, which he should have +done the moment my bottle set him afire. But I could hear feet running +and voices near the harbor-head. + +“With the tide ebbing, it came to my mind that if I were to cast off, +the current might carry the launch toward the harbor-mouth, perhaps +close enough to the other side of the harbor that I might leap ashore +dry. So I cut the painter with my clasp-knife, and no sooner than was +needful. The tide began to take the launch the few rods between me and +the harbor-mouth. But now four or five men were on the quay I had left, +and two rifles were firing. They hit the launch sure enough, and put +holes in her, like enough--but not in Seamus Donley. The blessed dark +that preserved me! In no time at all the launch had drifted right up +against the further quay, on her way to the harbor-mouth, and I had +hold of an iron ladder that’s fixed in the stones, and up I went. + +“As for the launch, she will have drifted out with the tide, and sunk, +what with the holes in her, for when I looked down toward the harbor +from the cliffs the next morning, there was no trace of her. You can +trust Seamus for a job of sabotage. + +“But there was no time for self-congratulations, Mr. Logan. They would +have seen me get ashore again, even in the fog, and would be at my +heels. The best route for myself was the low ground between the Old +House and the empty cottages at Duncambus, and then up to the caves +in the cliffs. Oh, I knew the island of Carnglass, what with shooting +rabbits and birds over the best part of it, while I played at keeper. +There was but one hope for Seamus left, and that was the coming of some +one in a boat, such as yourself. + +“A man or two set out after me, I think, and there was shooting in the +dark; but I showed them my heels, and made my way up the north cliffs; +yet a climb it was that none but a drunken man, or a desperate one, +would undertake. And before I had got to the foot of the cliffs, there +came a great _boom!_ behind me, and I looked round, and the yacht was +blazing worse than ever, for her petrol-tanks had blown up. Yet they +had been half drained earlier, so the explosion was not all I had hoped +for. When I got to the cliff-head, the fire in the yacht was out, so +they must have got pumps to working on the quay; Jackman will have been +back with his boys by that time, and what he told the boatmen could not +have been fit for decent ears. At dawn, when I risked a look at the +harbor, I could see the wreck of the yacht settled into the harbor mud, +with the water up to her gunwales even at low tide; she must be all +awash at high tide, and I doubt she’ll ever sail again. Sure, Jackman +can’t repair her.” + +Logan had interrupted seldom; that seemed the best policy, when Donley +was full of whiskey. Now he asked, “Do you mean you’ve bottled up +Jackman’s people altogether, Mr. Donley?” + +“And myself with them, Mr. Detective Logan. Even had Jackman means for +sending messages to the mainland, he’d say nothing concerning the yacht +and the launch, for fear of police coming to investigate. And he has no +such means, public or private. There was a wireless in the yacht, but +that’s lost; and there was an old wireless in the Old House, but that’s +been broken for a fortnight, how no one knows. + +“In a matter of days, sure, his agents in Glasgow will begin fretting +after Jackman, what with no word from Carnglass, and will send out some +boat with trusty men to see what’s wrong. Until he has another big +launch, though, Jackman can do no more spying among the islands, under +pretext of pleasure-cruising, nor get word from men that he pays in +South Uist and other places. And now there’s no Seamus Donley to handle +his explosives for him, though Royall and Jackman himself might make +shift, if ever they find a good time and place to use them. And Jackman +will be fearing that the fire was seen, and that inquiries will be +made.” + +“How is it, Seamus Donley,” Logan asked him, “that you’ve contrived to +keep clear of Jackman on this little island for three whole days?” + +Donley chuckled with a deep gratification. “There’ll be a dozen caves +in Carnglass; and faint cliff-paths that only a Kerry man could follow; +and two ruined villages, and the two empty farmhouses, and the barns +and outhouses and the rest. And the mist, the blessed mist. Would you +believe, Mr. Logan, that I’m sixty-four years of age? No more would +they. But old Seamus is three times the man that the best of them ever +was. Oh, I can lay false scents: I broke a window at night in the New +House, so they might think me hid inside, though I never entered; and +I smashed the lock on the door of this black house--it was kept for +a hunting-lodge on this shore--though I’ve not slept inside, to fool +them again; and they cannot tell where I lay my head. After dark, they +give up the hunt, huddling together in the Old House, for fright of +Seamus. And in the day, they dare not seek me in packs of less than +three, though I’ve but little Meg here against their rifles. Twice +they’ve come near to finishing me, the last time only this evening; but +the mist saved me again, and I climbed down the sea-face of the cliffs, +and came round to this hut of yours when the tide was low. They’ll be +on the scent again so soon as there’s daylight. For if Seamus got away +from Carnglass with a whole skin, their game would be played out. + +“What they hope, Mr. Detective Logan, is that old Seamus will be worn +down by lack of victuals and broken sleep and being run like a hare all +day; and then they’ll bag him. And so they might have done, in a day +or two more, had you not brought your dinghy to Dalcruach sands, Mr. +Logan. But now I’ll take French leave of them.” + +In his wild and ruinous way, this was a wonderful man, Logan thought. +“I’ve another plan, Seamus Donley,” he said. “It’s this: I suggest that +you and I go up to the Old House together, in the morning, and face +them down.” + +Donley slapped his hand upon the table, approvingly; and then, +remembering his situation, glanced uneasily toward the door. “By St. +Patrick and St. Merin--whoever _she_ was--you’ve a heart in your body, +Mr. Logan! You’d do honor to the Republican Army. Get thee behind me, +Satan Logan. ’Tis a temptation: and I might yield, if only we had a +brace of rifles. Mr. Detective Logan to stand for the majesty of the +law, and Mr. Seamus Donley for justice outraged! Ah, the pleasure of +seeing Jackman’s face, under the circumstances. Now tell me true: have +you no gun hid anywhere?” + +“I’ve nothing but a walking-stick and a long razor,” Logan said. + +Donley shook his bald head. “No, the thing won’t do, sir. Look +here: there’s but three bullets left in old Meg.” He swung open the +revolver’s cylinder. “The rest were spent, though I had a pocketful +of cartridges, in keeping off Jackman’s boys when they came within my +range. Fine figures you and I would cut, Mr. Detective, with one little +gun to the pair of us, tossing a sixpence for who might have the third +shot at Jackman. No, they call me a reckless Irishman, but I’m not the +fighting fool you seem to be. ’Tis away in your boat I must be tonight; +and if you’ve mind as well as heart, Mr. Logan, you’ll come away with +me, and let me set you ashore in safety, to fight another day.” + +“I’m thinking of the women’s safety,” Logan said. Donley nodded. “But +you can do one thing for me, Seamus Donley: let me write a note or two, +and you can carry them with you, and post them the moment you reach a +postbox; for I take it that I’ll need help.” + +“That I will do,” Seamus Donley said. “And more: the moment I reach a +telephone-kiosk, Mr. Detective, I will telephone your damned police, +and tell them there is trouble in Carnglass. But promise this much to +me, that you’ll not put my name into your letter. And you must hurry, +for midnight’s near, and I’ll need the ebbing of the tide to take me +clear of the skerries.” + +“Give me five minutes,” Logan told him, “and your leave to light the +lamp again, and you’ll have my word. You can read the note, for that +matter. And then I’ll see you launched in the dinghy. But unless you’re +a better boatman than any I’ve met, I can’t understand how you expect +to keep clear of the rocks, and fight the currents, let alone cross +open water, in an open boat.” + +“Seamus Donley,” that modest man said, “is as skilled with boats as +with explosives. Trust me, Mr. Logan: I’ll bring your message to land.” + +In haste, Logan scribbled a few words to the chief constable, Glasgow, +or any police-officer into whose hands the note might come, saying that +a man probably had been murdered in Carnglass, and that more trouble +might be expected, and that immediate action was required. He put the +paper into a soggy envelope, and Donley thrust it into an inner pocket. +“Now,” Logan said, “I’m your man, Seamus Donley. But watch for that +current just beyond the needle-rocks: with the wind we’ve had for these +past four or five hours, the odds are that it may be too strong for +you, and smash the boat against the western cliffs.” Logan stripped +off shoes, stockings, and trousers, for it would be drenching work to +launch the dinghy. And then the two of them went cautiously out of the +black house. So far as they could tell, they stood alone on the dark +beach. + +Though the wind had gone down an hour earlier, and the tide was flowing +back toward that lonely sea, still two strong men would be needed to +launch even a light boat in that surge on the beach. Neither moon nor +stars showed through the blackness. Between them, with much panting and +heaving, they dragged the dinghy to the water’s edge, and then pulled +her along the beach to a more sheltered spot behind an outcrop of gray, +weed-shrouded stone, where there was a good chance of getting her +really afloat. They staggered in water up to their waists; once Logan +fell, taking in a mouthful of salt water. The dinghy having shipped +some sea, Donley bailed her as best he could with her rusty bucket. Now +the trial must be made, and they would thrust her against the surf. + +Donley flung his overcoat into the boat. “If you’ve no strong +objection, Mr. Detective Logan,” he growled, “I’ll take with me the +remnant of your good whiskey: I slipped the bottle into my coat pocket +as we left the hut. You’ve a brave heart, but no eye for sneak-thieves. +Yet I’ll give value for value.” He handed to Logan something dark and +weighty: it was the little gun called Meg, in a shoulder-holster with a +strap. + +Logan fitted the holster under his arm. “That’s generous of you, Seamus +Donley.” + +“She’s a well-balanced weapon, Mr. Detective, and never was meant for +a free gift to a policeman. But how three bullets will prevail against +Jackman’s boys, I cannot advise you.” + +“Give me your hand,” Logan said. The tremendous grip of the Irishman +almost made him cry out. + +“We should have been Dominicans together, Mr. Logan,” Donley grinned. +He let go Logan’s hand. “Now put your shoulder to the dinghy.” + +They forced her bow against the comber, and Donley, rolling his great +body over the gunwale, seized the oars. Logan flung his strength +against the stern, running up to his nose in the receding wave. Now +Donley was plying his oars: the shelter of the rocks helped him; yet +only a man of his vast strength could have made head against that surly +swell. + +Then, suddenly, the crest of a wave was carrying the little boat +outward; Donley got her round the rocks that had helped her launching. +If he called out anything to Logan at the last, his voice was lost in +the noise of waves smashing against stone and sand. The dinghy passed +into the Hebridean night, and Logan wished that fierce man good fortune +upon his nocturnal sea. A minute later, Logan caught one final glimpse +of the boat passing over the inner reef, Donley rowing mightily. After +that, the mist settled upon the face of the waters. + + + + +6 + + +Some strange bird, perhaps a shearwater, swept high above Logan as he +made his way back to the hovel: it shrieked like nothing canny. That +cry was a fitting farewell to Seamus Donley. + +How much might Logan credit of the gunman’s story? While Donley had +sat before him, sinister and humorous, talking in his Kerry way, even +the more amazing parts of the tale had seemed fairly credible. But +now Logan felt grave doubts. Donley was a terrorist, his hand against +every man’s. That someone named Jackman should have designs upon Lady +MacAskival’s money was not improbable; but Donley’s assertion that +Jackman meant sabotage, espionage, and murder would not quite go down: +not in a quiet Scottish island owned by an old lady. + +Yet there had been Logan’s own encounter with violence in Mutto’s Wynd, +and that unnerving scene in the valley just back of the cliff, with the +three men firing at Donley. And Donley’s account of Lagg’s end had the +ring of truth. + +Logan barred the cottage door behind him. Whatever measures Jackman’s +people had taken with an escaped convict, surely they would not deal +similarly with an American lawyer, known by several people to have +been bound for Carnglass. Yet the feel of Donley’s pistol Meg, snug +under his arm, was a comfort. Well, he must spend five hours more in +the black house, though he had risen from his long sleep only ten hours +ago, and did not feel in the least tired, even after the launching of +the dinghy. There could be no climbing the cliffs until dawn. He let +the fire expire altogether, and did not re-light the lamp: Donley’s +warnings had that much effect upon him. Lying on the old bed with a +blanket about him, Logan thought of what he must do as soon as the sun +began to rise. + +The odds were that Donley’s pursuers would be out in force when light +came; they had nearly caught or shot Donley the previous evening, +and they would know that he was tired, and probably almost out of +ammunition. And if those men with rifles were even half so rough a crew +as Donley had suggested, it would be more prudent for Logan to avoid +a sudden encounter with them--particularly since they would take any +moving figure to be Donley himself. The best course, it seemed, would +be for Logan to keep to the cliff-tops, if possible, until close to the +Old House; and then to descend and go straight up to the door. If they +wouldn’t let him see Lady MacAskival, at least they could not mistake +him for Donley; and he could lay his cards before this Dr. Jackman--or +as many of his cards as might seem prudent. In Jackman, at least, Logan +took it, he would confront a rational being. + +It was inconceivable that any such man could persist in plans of +violence--supposing he contemplated any schemes of that character--once +he knew that he was facing a responsible person who had come to +Carnglass on legitimate business. And if Mr. Lagg should be alive +still--Donley, after all, had admitted that he had not seen Lagg +die--presumably Logan would find an ally in him. Yet it might be wise +to reconnoitre the Old House before knocking at the gate. + +It was possible to half-believe Donley’s tale because of the deathly +solitude that enveloped Carnglass. The island was like a great bony +corpse. Even here within the thick walls of the black house, the whole +drowned mountain seemed dehumanized--perhaps hostile to humanity. Small +non-human night noises drifted through the hole in the thatch: the +rustle of bracken, unpleasantly like sepulchral whispering; the cry, +again, of that nocturnal bird of prey: the surge of the devouring sea +against the cliffs. Listening to these, Logan fell into a restless +doze, now and then rousing himself with a start. Fragments of nightmare +beset him during the sporadic periods when consciousness drifted away. +And one of those fragments was deeply disturbing. + + * * * * * + +He found himself in some place utterly dark, and made all of stone, +without door or window; and his hands, when he extended his arms, could +touch the cold walls on either side. Whether he was lying or standing, +it was hard to guess: time and space and gravity and equilibrium had no +meaning here. Something was belted to his side--a sword. And he was not +alone. + +Something else, foul and malign, existed there in that oppressive dark +space. Of this, he could perceive nothing but its eyes; and there were +three of its eyes. It was a devouring thing. In that cramped dead +place, he drew the sword, and he hacked at those eyes. Yet the sword +rebounded, as if he were striking feebly with a blade of grass against +some enormous hard-shelled insect. “Strike through the sham!” a voice +cried within him. “Strike through the sham!” Frantically he thrust +against the blackness below the eyes. He was in terror not so much +for himself as for someone else; but the name and face of that other +someone would not come to him. And then, trembling and suffering from +cramp in one leg, Hugh Logan woke. + + * * * * * + +Outside the black house, birds were singing at the first feeble +gleam of light in the east. Still shaken by the vividness of that +nightmare vision, Logan flung on his clothes and strapped his knapsack +on his back and took up his stick. It would be well to vacate this +cottage before the man-stalkers of Carnglass were up and about; for, +considering the direction in which Donley had fled the previous +evening, Dalcruach was the most likely target for them this morning. +Donley’s pistol, in its holster, Logan fixed round his shoulder under +his tweed jacket; it seemed adequately concealed. + +He climbed the landward cliff more easily than he had the previous +afternoon, now knowing the neglected path; and when he reached the +summit, and saw the valley empty before him, he turned to his left +along the ragged crest of those titanic cliffs. + +The cliff-top was no narrow ledge: rather, it constituted an irregular +plateau, in some places only a few feet wide, but in most twenty or +thirty yards, and here or there a good deal wider. Broken by great +boulders and dotted with springs or pools--some of them almost little +ponds--this summit was rough going; surely it would take Logan almost +twice as long to reach the Old House by this route. Up here, no doubt, +Donley had lurked much of the time. When the mists were dense, it would +be next to impossible to track down a solitary man at the top of this +little world. + +This was one of those high places in which Satan offers the kingdoms of +the earth, Logan thought. Because of the winds, and the lack of soil, +nothing grew here except occasional clumps of heather and little ferns +and rock-plants. For the most part, the summit-plateau sloped inward +toward the valleys of the island; the sea-face seemed to be sheer +drop, almost everywhere. Today the wind was fairly strong, sweeping the +spring fog out to sea, and Logan had clear glimpses, half the time, +of the interior of Carnglass. The island was much better wooded than +are most of the Hebrides: thick plantations were dotted here and there +below the screes, doubtless the work of old Sir Alastair MacAskival. +Twice, as he made his precarious way over the windswept rocks, Logan +saw red deer grazing near the cliff-foot. And everywhere was trickling +water. Early spring in the Western Isles has its charms, but it made +the rocks treacherous for Logan, and soaked his boots through. He used +his binoculars when he came to a bold promontory of cliff, looking +northward, though he lay down to avoid making a mark of himself. Near +the ruined farmhouse at Mucaird, a small flock of sheep was browsing, +some straying upward upon the hill itself; yet there was no sign of any +man. + +But a quarter of an hour later, as he drew near to a jumbled mass of +living rock and broken boulders covered with lichens, something moving +against the heather of Mucaird caught his eye. Half sheltering himself +behind a rock, he took out the binoculars again. Yes, it was three men +with rifles, close to the derelict farmhouse and sheilings, and walking +in the direction of Dalcruach. Something in their movements suggested +that they were very ill at ease. And at that moment Logan felt himself +to be in peril. + +For only fifty yards away, and scrambling toward him, came two armed +men. Their attention was fixed upon the scene in the valley, as his +had been, and apparently they did not see Logan. He slid quickly down +behind his boulder. It scarcely was possible that this cliff-patrol +should fail to detect him. Should he stand up and call out to them now, +or wait until they should be right upon him? Either course had its +perils. Then the decision was taken out of his hands. + +Down in the valley, one of the men flung his rifle to his shoulder and +fired into the bracken on his left. The other hunters in that party +knelt and fired also. Having put his binoculars back into their case, +Logan could not see whether there was any movement in that brush. +Whatever could they be firing at? Mere nerves, probably, since they had +no idea Donley had escaped from the island; or possibly a stray sheep +or a deer, which they in their tension mistook for a man. + +“Ferd!” one of the men on the cliff called out to the other. “Ferd!” +They were so close to Logan now that they sounded almost on the other +side of his rock. “They’ve flushed him!” Then the voices of his +neighbors receded, and Logan risked a peek around the boulder. The two +had turned about and were retracing their steps, apparently looking for +some way down the cliff to the screes, and so to the valley floor. It +had been a close call. As the two riflemen scrambled round a rock shelf +and began a tentative descent, Logan crept toward the seaward side of +the cliff and so on toward the west, sometimes on hands and knees, +until he felt safe from their sight. + +When next he ventured toward the inland side of the cliff and took out +his binoculars, the party of three men in the valley was vanishing +behind a knoll toward the northern cliffs, and the other two, who had +so nearly stumbled upon him, were nowhere to be seen; presumably they +still were groping for a way down. Now, Logan guessed, he would be +secure from such patrols until he came close to the Old House. Likely +enough, two or three men had been sent to search the northern line of +cliffs, so as to drive the elusive Donley like a wild beast toward +Dalcruach; and that would leave only a handful of men about the Old +House, the New House, and the harbor--if, indeed, even these last, or +most of them, were not out searching elsewhere. He ought to be able to +get very close up to the Old House before being noticed. + +Soon he was past the ridge or saddle that joined the cliffs to the hill +of Mucaird; and now he could look down upon the further valley. Broader +than the first, it also was less stricken by the plague of bracken; +there were cattle grazing--yes, the shaggy Highland beasts, he could +see. The ring of cliffs was lower here than at the other end of the +island. At the southwestern extremity, those gray walls dipped down to +the ocean, forming the neck of Askival harbor. On the northern side of +the harbor, the cliffs rose again and merged into a steep hill, which +must be the one called Cailleach, The Nun. At its foot he could make +out the scanty ruins of an ancient village: here Duncan MacAskival’s +crofting ancestors had lived. + +Askival harbor was a good deep anchorage. On either side of its mouth, +an old pier of rubble ran out to narrow the entrance still further +against the ravenous ocean. And at the quay nearest to him, the burnt +yacht lay lurched against the rocks; it was low tide again now, and her +deck, or what remained of it, was just awash. The New House, rather a +modest and neat eighteenth-century mansion, stood close by the harbor, +surrounded by plantations and overgrown gardens. Further up the valley, +in the shelter of the southern cliffs on which he stood, there was +another farmhouse, apparently empty, but in better condition than the +one by Mucaird; and near it some cottages and sheilings. + +All this, Logan took in through a long, low sweep of the binoculars. +Then he focused upon the object of this troubled journey of his, the +Old House of Fear. A quarter of a mile back from the harbor, the stark +gray walls of the Old House rose upon a massive outcrop of rock: a +place of great strength once. No man was stirring about it. + +Fine old trees grew at the very foot of the living rock on which +the Old House was built; but the castle defied the wind in its naked +power, showing no touch of greenery except a glimpse of leaves at +the back, possibly in a small walled garden. The late-Victorian wing +blended fairly harmoniously with the mass of the ancient tower, and +seemed to close off the original entrance from the present exterior of +the complex; the modern gate must front toward the harbor, and so lie +hidden from Logan’s view, from his present position upon the cliffs. +Talk of castles in Spain! The Old House of Fear, here upon the desolate +verge of civilization--at the limits, indeed, of human existence +itself--had a brooding glamour denied to Roman and Saracen lands. + +Here toward the harbor, the cliff-face was easier than the precipices +toward the northeastern end of the island. If he were cautious, he +might make the descent without alarming anyone at the Old House. Having +climbed several summers both in the highlands of Perthshire and in the +Rockies, Logan could avoid sending boulders thundering before him. +Supposing no one chanced to make a target of him, he might reach the +Old House about noon. + +Now how might he descend toward the Old House unobserved? Coming down +the cliff-face and the screes, if he should try it just now, he must +make a fair mark; although when he should reach the cliff-foot, he +might pass to the back of the New House through the plantations and +then slink along a belt of aspens and firs which stretched from the +New House to the wood round the base of the rock where stood the Old +House. First, however, he must make his way along the cliffs until he +should come nearly abreast of the New House, and then seek for a way +down. And the thing might be done, in this mistiest of islands, in +this mistiest of seasons. For the breeze was subsiding again, and the +sky had darkened; and once more the fog might settle over cliffs and +hill-tops, though possibly it would not sink low into the valley. + +It took Logan half an hour to discover--always taking advantage of +cover--a tolerable fissure in the cliff down which he might make his +way. Still no one was to be seen between him and the Old House. Twice +he thought he heard gunshots in the distant northeastern valley; but, +the wind being eccentric and generally against him, he might have been +mistaken. And presently, as he had hoped, the mist began to settle like +a shroud upon the cliffs. His tweeds blended with rock and heather. For +twenty minutes more, he crouched at the summit, the fog slowly shutting +off his view of harbor and New House and Old House. Then, carefully, he +began the slippery descent. When he reached the talus-slope, he walked +gingerly, lest he start a warning slide of rock debris. + +Still he saw no one, nor heard anything. At length he was in the firs +of the outlying plantations of the New House, and moving swiftly toward +the Old House. It was midday, on a Wednesday, a full week since he had +left Michigan. And now he stood, sheltered by old trees, right below +the Old House of Fear. + +Immediately above him, nearly thirty feet up the steeply-sloping gray +outcrop, was the little walled garden he had glimpsed from the cliffs; +and a stout stone dyke about eight feet high enclosed it. The garden +was set against the rear wall of the great ancient tower, the windows +of which looked upon the wood, so that the moment Logan should emerge +from the cover of the trees, he must be fully visible to anyone at +those windows. Most of the apertures in the tower-wall--from this +position below, it seemed like a skyscraper--were the original or at +least medieval windows, perhaps a foot square, though now closed with +glass panes; but the windows of the third story had been much enlarged, +perhaps at the end of the seventeenth century, so that they were +taller than a man, and fitted with double sashes of nine panes each. +Crouching near the northeastern angle of the tower as he did, Logan +could see the range of seventeenth-century buildings that extended +to the smaller medieval tower, and beyond that the jutting bulk of +the late-Victorian additions, which covered the whole surface of the +seaward part of the rock. So long as he kept to the rear of the old +tower, he could not be observed from the later portions of the mansion. +And it stood to reason that some sort of postern-door must open from +the old tower into the walled garden. + +There drifted to him a sound of voices. Lying flat in the wood, Logan +made out two men with guns, striding from behind the façade of the +Victorian building in the direction of the hill called Cailleach; thus +their backs were to him, or soon would be. The leader was a tall gaunt +gawky creature, possibly Donley’s “walking cadaver,” Royall. So Logan +knew that he had not yet been seen; and there were two less snipers to +fret about for the moment. He let them go out of sight downhill. By +hooking the handle of his stick over the lip of the garden dyke, he +thought, he should be able to scramble up and into the little garden. +It had best be now. + +But at that moment, as he rose to step out of the wood and clamber upon +the rock, he perceived someone at the nearest third-story window of the +old tower. “Saints be praised,” Donley would have said; for it was a +woman’s shape. If this should be Lady MacAskival herself, Logan’s work +might be made easier for him. He stepped into the open. + +From high above, she saw him; and though perhaps she started a little, +she gave no sign of real dread. This was the first calming thing that +Logan had observed in Carnglass. Unhurried, the woman lifted the sash. +Surely she could not be Lady MacAskival, for she was slim and graceful +and apparently young; that much Logan could make out, though she stood +so high above him. Could this be the “Young One” to whom Donley had +referred vaguely? There had not been much time for asking incidental +questions of Donley. Then she spoke, with a gentle lilt to her voice, +and very low, so that her words just carried to Logan. “If you can come +over the dyke,” she said, “I will open the little door for you.” Her +shape vanished from the window. + +Logan skipped up the great rock and hooked his stick upon the dyke, +putting his feet against the wall; and up he went, and grasped the +top--luckily there was no broken bottle-glass set into it--and pulled +himself over, and sprang into the square of garden, which must have +been wearisomely established by patient labor in this unlikely spot. +There were a half-dozen flowering shrubs, and some small yews, and two +neat beds of flowers. And beyond these lay a small heavy iron door set +into the great wall. Logan waited a long minute before bolts grated +back and the door swung inward. + +“Quickly, now,” that soft voice said, “and please take off your boots +once you are inside.” The foundation-wall into which the doorway had +been cut must be at least ten feet thick. Logan slipped past the woman, +who bolted the door behind him, and he had unlaced and removed his +boots almost before she turned to him. They stood in an enormous empty +vaulted chamber, in the earliest days of the stronghold a stable and +storehouse, no doubt. At one angle, a stone stair wound upward into the +blackness of the great wall itself. Though the only light came from +slits three feet above their heads, he saw her fairly plain. + +“Really, sir,” she was saying, ever so quietly, but with an undertone +of amusement, “you seem to have scrambled over the worst of Carnglass.” +Logan became conscious of his rock-bruises and his two-day beard. “Now +what is your name, please, and who sent you?” + +She was young, less than twenty, and a tiny beauty: her shapely head +came scarcely above Logan’s shoulder. The oval face with the high +cheek-bones was a charming pink-and-white; the firm lips had an +infinite grace and mobility, and the dreamy wide eyes were green. The +nose, perhaps, was a trifle masculine in so small a face, straight and +strong. And the flaming glory of her red hair, which descended to her +supple waist! She wore a close-fitting simple suit, of the green tweed +of the Islands. Blood tells, Logan thought: this girl is of the old +line. She made him stammer. + +“I’m Hugh Logan,” he said, “representing Mr. Duncan MacAskival.” + +She clapped her slender hands noiselessly. “I knew you must come from +him! It was I that sent for you, you know. Are there others just +outside?” + +Logan shook his head. This would be the Young One. But who was she? + +“And I am Mary MacAskival,” she told him. “Come away, and make no +noise. I do not think we shall be long alone together. Carry your +boots.” She sprang to the twisting dark stair in the wall, with Logan +at her heels. They were naked delicate heels, Logan saw, as they +scampered up into the wall: she wore no shoes and stockings, as if +the chill stones of the Hebrides were warm sand to her. The bare feet +of Scottish girls, it came to him incongruously, had been one of the +principal attractions of the land for French visitors in the eighteenth +century. + +In silence, they passed a shallow landing and a massive door; and +hurried up another corkscrew flight, she pausing to whisper, “Do watch +your feet here; it is the bad step--the place they made to trip enemies +in the fighting with claymores, you know.” Yes, the single step was +two inches higher than the rest, to throw off balance a man leaping +upward. They passed a second recessed landing and a second heavy door; +and then Mary MacAskival swung open the door opening upon the third +story, ushering Logan into a noble ancient vaulted chamber. “This is my +very own parlor,” she told him, with just a hint of vanity. + +The square room had a ceiling painted in faded reds and browns, +geometrical designs by men long dead; and there were a few good +pieces of furniture, principally eighteenth century, and a crimson +Victorian sofa. A door in the further wall gave entrance, probably, to +the seventeenth-century domestic range of the Old House; and another +led, presumably, to a sleeping-closet. “Do sit down,” the girl said, +gesturing toward the sofa, “and you may put on your boots, if you like. +I did not wish them to hear us on the stair.” For herself, she settled +nimbly into a window-nook opposite him, her tiny feet hid by her skirt. +“Now tell me truly,” she went on. “Are you a real American? I thought +all Americans wore synthetic suits, and carried great cameras over +their shoulders, and smoked cigars incessantly, and said ‘You bet’ and +‘I guess,’ and wore their hair sheared ever so close. Do you know, Mr. +Logan, you could pass muster for a Scot? Now wherever are the others?” + +“There’s no one with me,” Logan said. She still had him nearly +tongue-tied, like an adolescent. + +A little charming ripple of dismay passed over that lively face of +hers. “No others? Then where are Mr. Duncan MacAskival and all his +people?” + +“I came alone from America, Miss MacAskival, and it was all I could do +to make Carnglass by myself.” + +“No!” That sweet mouth rounded to give force to the negation. “No!” +She threw back from her forehead a lock of red hair, bewildered. “Mr. +Logan, I’m afraid I have made a serious error. You must understand +that I am not very worldly; I’m sorry for it. I thought any American +millionaire would come in his own grand yacht, and servants beside +him, and perhaps policemen and soldiers and cabinet-ministers. I never +guessed that you, or anyone else, might come all alone. I do fear +that I may have fetched you into a dangerous plight.” Her musical +island English--and yet she must have been to a good school somewhere, +too--was so pleasant to the ear that Logan almost neglected the warning +in her words. “Now look here, Mr. Logan.” A quality of decision came +into her soft voice that had some connection with that high-bridged +nose of hers. “Do you think you could pretend--successfully, I mean--to +be an Edinburgh man? A young bank-clerk? The British Linen Bank, shall +we say?” Despite the girl’s childish look, in some respects she was in +advance of her years; just now she might have been a dowager duchess. +“You can? Then you must do precisely that. I do hope you studied +play-acting once upon a time. I did, you know, at the convent-school. +You’re very young, Mr. Logan--I had expected a very rich and very fat +old man--but really, you must contrive to carry it off. Everything +depends on it.” + +“Just a question or two, please,” Logan said. “I met a man named Donley +at the other end of the island.” + +“Of course.” She smiled. “A great cheerful ruffian. And he said some +things to you? They will not have caught him yet?” + +“I don’t believe they’ll ever catch that man, Miss MacAskival. He told +me that matters are dangerous here in the Old House.” + +“He told you truly. What else did he tell you?” + +“He said that Dr. Jackman intends to--to have Lady MacAskival die.” + +Her eyebrows lifted. “O, no! Donley was mistaken. Lady MacAskival would +not have been alive these past two months had not Dr. Jackman tended +her with all his skill. He has been a good nurse. It’s to his own +interest that she should live.” + +Logan looked her compassionately in the eyes. “And Donley hinted that +you, too, were to die.” + +The girl shook her bright head impatiently. “Donley did not understand. +Dr. Jackman does not mean to have me die--not now, and perhaps never. +Dr. Jackman means to marry me.” + +Logan had cultivated a calm courtroom presence, but now he blinked. +“You’re not joking?” + +Mary MacAskival smiled ever so slightly. “Do you think Dr. Jackman +shows bad taste? Hush, now!” She sat listening intently, her head +inclined toward the door that opened upon the body of the Old House. +Logan could hear nothing, but of course this girl’s ears would be +attuned to every footfall in that strange place. + +“Stand up, please,” she said; and then, silent on her nimble naked +feet, she approached him. “I do hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Logan, but +I am about to do something rude. I’ve done it seldom, and I may do it +badly.” There came a light tap at the door. “Hold me, if you please,” +she whispered, and pressed that lithe body against him, flinging her +arms about his neck. Logan heard the door creak open, but he could +not see, for the moment, who entered; and this was because Mary +MacAskival’s red lips were thrust upon his, and the glory of her red +hair was all about his face. Then, as she let him go a trifle, over her +shoulder he saw a man standing in the doorway. + +It was a small man, sturdy enough, but with an indescribable air +of deformity about him--perhaps a curious thrusting forward of the +shoulders. With his forehead, too, there was something faintly wrong. +But the eyes were splendid: black, and piercing, piercing. The man’s +face was one of those faces which never were young and never will be +ancient. The face tightened, as if resisting shock, and Logan thought +the man’s right hand strayed toward the back of his coat; but it +returned gently to his side. + +The man’s voice was controlled and well modulated. “I am surprised to +find you have a visitor, Miss MacAskival.” + +Mary MacAskival let go her arms from Logan’s neck and turned on her +toes to face the man, with a wonderfully convincing air of surprise and +embarrassment. “Oh, Dr. Jackman!” she murmured. “We must have looked +dreadfully silly. Dr. Jackman, may I present Mr. Hugh Logan, of the +British Linen Bank, Edinburgh? Mr. Logan and I are to be married.” + + + + +7 + + +“Why, then,” Dr. Jackman said, “Mr. Logan is a fortunate young man.” +The note of irony was faint. “I seem to recollect, Miss MacAskival, +your mentioning that you met a young man at an Edinburgh party, last +Christmas: I suppose this is he. And however did your betrothed +contrive to come into this house, in this season?” + +Whatever game the girl was playing, Logan thought, he too would have +to play it now. And possibly he might carry it off. Jackman he took +for an Englishman. Logan had some talent for languages and dialects; +his courtroom years had taught him dissimulation; and since the war he +had been in several amateur performances of the Players’ Club. Now for +his present role: he had best play the part of a rather callow, but +ambitious, clerk from the Lothians. His speech ought to have a strong +suggestion of Scots, but to seem an imitation of public-school English, +and with a touch of what people called “la-de-da.” A small moustache +might have gone well with the part; it was a pity he hadn’t been given +time to cultivate one. + +So Logan stepped forward rather stiffly, offering his hand to Jackman. +“Now the fat is in the fire, isn’t it? Rather. It’s grand to make your +acquaintance, Dr. Jackman, but really, I must apologize for coming +informally this way. It’s my fortnight’s holiday, and I had promised +Mary to come for a holiday as soon as ever I could. Somehow my letters +hadn’t reached her. The post is beastly nowadays, is it not? Some +fishing-johnnies brought me over from North Uist, and set me ashore +at the other end of your wee island. Now I must see Lady MacAskival +today and ask her approval. For Mary and I do not mean to wait another +quarter, do we, Mary, darling?” + +The girl had stepped forward with him; and now Logan, putting an arm +about her waist, gave her an overdemonstrative squeeze, in keeping with +his new character. She did not seem disconcerted. “No, Hughie,” she +said, “we mustn’t wait a day longer than necessary.” + +Dr. Jackman’s thin lips contracted, but he took Logan’s hand briefly. +“You and I will have much to discuss soon, Mr. Logan,” he said, “but +just now, tell me this: if you came from the shore at Dalcruach, did +you meet no one on your way?” + +“Indeed I did see some men hunting,” Logan replied, easily, “but +they were away down in the glen, and their backs to me, so they did +not see me when I waved.” He was doing well enough with his assumed +pronunciation, he thought; he threw just a suggestion of “awa’ doon” +into his words. “Then there were two sportsmen on the cliffs, and I +called after them, but the mist came up and hid them. I kept to the +cliffs, the better for finding the castle. And Mary here”--he squeezed +her again--“had told me her rooms were at the back of the house, so I +went round, and Mary saw me and let me in.” He felt sure that Jackman +disliked him intensely. Who wouldn’t, in his present role? He hoped he +was convincing as a pushing, canny, and unmannerly junior clerk. + +Jackman looked vexed, though not especially with him. “Mr. Logan,” +Jackman said, “did you ever dream that you were the commander of a +garrison, for instance, with Red Indians all about your fort; but that +the moment you turned your back, your troops would vanish like shadows; +and any shot that was fired at the enemy, would have to be fired by +yourself?” + +“No, sir,” Logan replied, with what he trusted was a properly oafish +perplexity, “I never did. The fact of the matter is, I never do dream.” + +“I should have thought of that,” Jackman observed. “No, I’m sure you +never dream. But to return to the heart of the matter: I dream a great +deal. And the conduct of Lady MacAskival’s servants is like a nightmare +to me. What incompetence! Yet several of them saw service during the +late war. If none of them spied you on the cliffs, they must be even +duller than I thought. I suppose that Miss MacAskival has told you a +very dangerous man is at large in the island?” + +“She has, sir; and I am thankful I did not meet with him on my way. An +Irishman, she says.” + +“Yes, Donley: an Irishman, and a homicidal maniac. Our people have been +seeking to arrest him for more than three days, but he always escapes +their net. Those were not sportsmen you saw, Mr. Logan, but our people +tracking this Donley. Neither Miss MacAskival nor anyone else in this +house will be able to set foot outside while that man is at large, +unless accompanied by an armed guard. I regret to say, Miss MacAskival, +that I must forbid you to visit your garden until the man is caught. +And please have the goodness to remember to keep back from the windows. +The man is armed, Mr. Logan, and a crack shot. Only Ferd Caggia, our +cook, is his peer with a gun. To be defended by a Maltese cook in one’s +own castle! Ludicrous, isn’t it, Mr. Logan? I suppose you wonder why +we haven’t summoned the police. But possibly Miss MacAskival has had +time to tell you that the madman destroyed our boats, and we have been +quite out of communication with the mainland. Presumably, however, our +agents in Glasgow will send a launch to us in a day or two, by way of +inquiry, and then we can call in the police. That launch, by the way, +can give you passage back to the mainland, Mr. Logan.” + +“That’s very thoughtful, I’m sure, sir,” Logan said innocently, “but +it’s my plan to stay the best part of a fortnight, if Lady MacAskival +will permit me.” + +“Lady MacAskival is in no condition to make decisions of any nature. +As for your remaining here--why, we’d best go upstairs to my study +and discuss certain matters, Mr. Logan. Will you excuse me, Miss +MacAskival?” + +That barefoot little girl stepped forward like a princess. “Dr. +Jackman: surely you remember my Airedale, Tyke?” + +“Yes,” Jackman said with a frosty smile, “I do. A great pity, that +rabbit-hunting accident.” + +“You took Tyke for a walk, Dr. Jackman,” Mary MacAskival went on, +dispassionately, “and never did you bring him back. I wish you to bring +Hugh back to me. I intend to give him tea here in my parlor, one hour +from now.” + +“Of course, my dear young lady.” Jackman bowed slightly. “I shall bring +him back safe in wind and limb: eh, Logan?” He clapped Logan lightly +on the back. “And now, be so good as to follow me up these stairs. +Mind the worn stone treads: they’re treacherous. No one knows how many +generations of MacAskivals have trodden that granite through. There’s +a legend that the ghost of Old Askival snatches at one’s ankles on +those stairs. Eh, Miss MacAskival? I’m sure he’d snatch at yours, and +small blame to him.” Jackman nodded at the girl with a kind of paternal +gallantry. + +Mary MacAskival stood in the doorway as Logan and Jackman began to +ascend. “I believe it was my ankles that you noticed first, wasn’t it, +Hughie?” Though the stair was dark, Logan thought that Jackman almost +winced. “I suppose I really ought to tell you how it was that Hugh +and I came to meet, Dr. Jackman. You’ve already guessed that it must +have been during that wonderful fortnight Lady MacAskival and you let +me spend in Edinburgh in December with Anne Lindsay, who had been at +school with me. I happened to go into the Lawnmarket office of the +British Linen Bank to change a five-pound note; and Hugh was so very +helpful; and we found that he knew the Lindsays of George Square; +and....” + +“Quite,” said Dr. Jackman, “quite. Perhaps we had best leave the rest +to my fertile imagination? Really, I am not in the least surprised; if +you will pardon my saying so, Miss Mary MacAskival, the little episode +is part and parcel with the traditional impulsiveness of ladies of your +family. You understand what I mean. The inscription by the door of the +old tower, for instance--we’ll show you that incised slab later, Mr. +Logan. Just now, I’ve only one thing to say to you, Miss MacAskival. I +advise you to go in to Lady MacAskival and tell her that a young man +has come to call upon you. As for any mention of marriage, the shock +might put an end to your aunt; and you know as well as I do the certain +consequence to your own prospects. Yet you had best mention Mr. Logan’s +coming, because old Agnes would tell her soon enough, in any event. I +advise you to be extremely gentle and prudent in the telling. And while +you are having your little chat with Lady MacAskival, I shall have my +little chat with your Mr. Logan.” + +Mary MacAskival sent a glance from her disturbing green eyes at Hugh as +he followed Jackman up the dark stair; and she gave him a demure wink. +Whatever else the girl had or lacked, she had sufficient courage in +adversity. Then she was gone, and Jackman led him round and round the +twisting stair in the thickness of the wall, past several shut doors, +to the topmost chamber of the tower. Upon three sides were windows, +not so large as those of Miss MacAskival’s room, but still big and +handsome; and on the fourth wall was an immense fireplace, perhaps +fifteenth-century work, with a ponderous chimney-piece carved crudely +from basalt. On one side of the mantel, and standing two feet high, +carved almost in the round, was the effigy of a naked man holding an +axe; and on the other, a naked woman clutching a cross to her breast. + +“A ponderous quaint affair, isn’t it?” Jackman observed, nodding toward +the fireplace. “There are similar figures set into the outer wall, by +the door of this tower: Askival and Merin, they say. The Old House is +so well preserved only because it stood empty, but not a ruin, nearly +the whole of the nineteenth century: the proprietors lived in the New +House. They used the ground floors of the Old House for byres and +rubbish-rooms. Sir Alastair MacAskival, the present old lady’s husband, +restored the Old House--with his wife’s money. It’s far too large for +such a household as she has now. The block that Sir Alastair added +is all great drawing-rooms and dining-rooms and billiard-rooms and +ball-rooms, with the kitchens below; and the present servants sleep in +the upper rooms of that wing. Lady MacAskival has a grand bedroom hung +with Spanish leather, in the Renaissance range; and I have rooms in +that building. But I spend much of my time in this study. For centuries +it was the private chamber of the chiefs of MacAskival. There’s a fine +prospect; but I’ll show you that later, Mr. Logan. And have you noticed +the ceiling? But I presume you’re no antiquarian.” + +Indeed, the ceiling was a wonder. Though the colors in which its panels +were painted were much like those of the ceiling in Mary MacAskival’s +parlor, here geometrical designs alternated with scores of stiff +representations of queer men and beasties: kings, perhaps, and knights, +and ladies, and lions, and leopards, and griffins, and water-horses, +and unicorns, and things for which Logan knew no name--no two alike. +“Late fifteenth century, perhaps,” Jackman said, “and almost unique in +the islands, this ceiling.” + +At the center of all these painted ceiling-panels was a panel with +a dull red background; and on it, little faded, was depicted a very +odd creature. It had the body of a man; but there were cloven hoofs +instead of feet, though it showed human hands; and the head was +the narrow malign head of a goat. The face itself seemed to be a +dismaying blend of human and animal features, in which the cunning +slit goat-eyes dominated. “I see you are looking at the Firgower--the +central panel,” Jackman went on. “A beast peculiar to Carnglass, it +seems, the Firgower: half goat, half man. There’s still a ruinous +building upon the cliffs called the Firgower’s house. I take it to +have been the house of the last Pictish chief of Carnglass, before the +Vikings came. There’s some remote Pict strain, as well as Norse, in +your own Miss MacAskival, Mr. Logan. She is of the old family, true +enough--not that she has the faintest legitimate claim to the property, +you understand. But I suppose you have little interest in fictions like +the Firgower. These legends sometimes have meaning, all the same. Once +an archeologist told me that the Firgower may be some island memory +of the last Pict chieftain himself: an ugly brute, to judge from this +portrait. The old islanders used to say that the Firgower never died, +but lives on from age to age. And that’s true enough, Mr. Logan, after +a fashion--the goat strain, I mean. I don’t scruple to say that a +goatish strain has run through the line of MacAskival, from beginning +to end. Gallant men and handsome women; but concupiscent, Mr. Logan, +concupiscent. You understand me? There are vessels for honor, and +vessels for dishonor.” + +“I can’t say that I do understand, precisely, sir.” The two of them +were seated in leather chairs now, and Jackman was pouring sherry from +an eighteenth-century decanter. What with Mary MacAskival absent, +Logan could spend his time studying this unnerving Dr. Jackman. As +Donley had told him, the fellow was clever, immensely clever; and +more than that, wise, perhaps; and voluble. He made Logan uneasy to a +degree Logan never had experienced with that gunman Donley. The little +deformed man had a commanding presence. And still Logan was unsure of +the nature of Jackman’s deformity: it was something about the spine and +shoulders, though not crippling or really noticeable. Yet Jackman’s +lean face had about it just a suggestion of that look of suffering +and humiliation which one sometimes sees on the faces of congenital +hunchbacks. And there was something dismaying about the man’s forehead. +Right at the middle of his brow existed a small and shallow depression, +about the size and shape of a sixpence; and there seemed to be no bone +behind the skin at that spot. Now and then the place seemed to stir a +little, as if the skin lay upon the quick brain. In an unpleasant way, +it was fascinating. + +“Very good old sherry, this,” Jackman was saying. “Sir Alastair kept +an admirable cellar, and much of it still is below stairs. One has to +watch the servants. There’s a quantity--perhaps two bins--of Jamaica +rum of 1800 or earlier, commencing to lose its savor now, alas. Another +drop, Mr. Logan? You’ve been looking at the hole in my head: not that +I mean to reproach you, for you’d have to be blind to ignore it. It’s +a souvenir of Spain. In the lines outside Teruel, a spent bullet went +right through the bone. But there was a Russian surgeon in Teruel +that day, luckily, and he got the bullet out, and now there’s a bit +of plastic set into my poor skull. I call the place my third eye. +You’ve read the Hebridean legends of third eyes, Mr. Logan? No? I +suppose you’ve little time for general reading, what with the getting +and spending of your vocation. For that matter, I presume you know +next to nothing of the Spanish trouble, more than twenty years ago: +a youthful indiscretion of mine. But possibly that’s just as well. +Every man to his last. You will be twenty-seven years old, Mr. Logan, +or perhaps twenty-eight? And earning seven pounds a week, like as +not. And you aspire to marry the sole survivor of the old, old line +of MacAskival. Not that I blame you, not in the least. In the coming +world, Mr. Logan, there will be no rank and no class. And intellect +will have its rewards. No, so far as social status is concerned, I +offer no objection. ‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’ as you Scots say, Mr. +Logan. Yet I would be no friend to you if I neglected to give you some +description of the difficulties in your way.” + +His face and his facility of speech had served him well, Logan +thought: Dr. Jackman had no doubt, it appeared, that Logan was indeed +an Edinburgh clerk; and astute though Jackman obviously was, he had +underestimated Logan’s age by nearly a decade. The man could make +mistakes. Logan intended that Jackman should continue to make mistakes, +at least until he could discover more about Lady MacAskival and Mary +MacAskival and Jackman himself. “Difficulties, Dr. Jackman?” Logan +said, leaning forward and acting the pushing clerk, at once brash and +smarmy. “Difficulties? Mary has told me more than once that there will +be no financial problem, for she says she’s money to burn. And look +at this grand house. Aye, I’ll take more sherry, and I thank you. +Would Lady MacAskival raise difficulties, do you think, Dr. Jackman? +Look here, sir: I ask you as a son to his dad. If Lady MacAskival’s +incapacitated, would it be asking too much for you to give away the +bride, sir?” + +That twist of the knife had been felt, Logan could tell: the skin +twitched about the strange spot in Jackman’s forehead; but the man’s +expression did not change, nor the tone of his voice alter. “Why,” +Jackman said, “before you and I speak of marrying and giving in +marriage, there is some history I must tell you, Mr. Logan. And I fear +I have been neglecting my duties as host in Lady MacAskival’s absence.” +He put his hand on a old-fashioned velvet bell-pull, and jerked it. +“Among the difficulties of life in Carnglass, Mr. Logan, is the problem +of staff. We take men where we find them, and try to be thankful for +small mercies. Life in the remotest of the Hebrides isn’t to the taste +of modern servants. Our butler, however, is rather a jewel; you’ll see +him in a moment. The footman is a diamond, though rough. We may have +to let the footman, Anderson, go; for he has involved us in all this +trouble, doubtless with the best of intentions. It was on his urging +that we engaged that Irish brute of a gamekeeper, Seamus Donley, who +was some connection of Anderson’s. I could see that Donley was three +parts savage, but in a lonely island like Carnglass, savagery may be a +virtue in a keeper. What I failed to detect was his insanity. For a man +of his age, Donley is astonishingly strong and quick--for a man of any +age, so far as that goes. And quite out of his head. He concealed his +madness with a certain Kerry wheedling wit. I must confess that I knew +Donley had been in gaol at one time, in Belfast or Derry; but I mistook +him for a mere simple-minded Irish rebel, relatively harmless. I’ve +still some fellow-feeling for rebels: in my younger days I was rather +a radical--almost an activist. I still have many acquaintances in the +labor movement. You are not a Socialist, by any chance, Mr. Logan?” + +“Oh, no, sir,” Logan demurred wholeheartedly, “that never would do at +the British Linen Bank. The manager never would allow it.” + +“Quite.” Dr. Jackman nodded approval, with the merest suggestion of a +pucker about the corners of his mouth. “Quite right. Socialism is a +snare and a delusion, at least as socialism is understood in Britain. +Hold fast by your principles, Mr. Logan.” + +A tap at the door, then; and a small gray-haired man in a neat velvet +jacket entered. He almost stumbled upon Logan, and his mouth fell +open. “Blimey!” he cried; and then, to Jackman, “Begging your pardon, +that is, sir.” This must be the Cockney butler Donley had mentioned, +Sam Tompkins; and he certainly did not look like a ruffian or a +conspirator, though there was a shiftiness about the little eyes. South +of Mason’s and Dixon’s Line, Logan reflected, such a servant would be +given to “totin’ victuals.” Yet, the times and the place considered, a +very decent-looking butler. + +“Tompkins,” Dr. Jackman said, “this gentleman is Mr. Hugh Logan, a +friend of Miss MacAskival. He was landed from a boat this morning. +We shall put him in the brown room, opposite mine, and you are to +see that everything is in order. Take his sack and stick and cape +with you. And you’d best tell the others as they come in, for fear of +misunderstanding. Niven is standing guard at the door just now? Very +well. Make sure he gets nothing to drink. And tell Miss MacAskival that +Mr. Logan will be late for tea; he and I are having a very interesting +talk.” + +As Tompkins went out, Jackman smiled at Logan. “Your arrival will be +a nine-days’ wonder below stairs. If you observe some surliness or +fecklessness below, please accept my apologies in advance. I never +tolerate deliberate rudeness; report anything of that sort to me. +Whatever the deficiencies of these fellows, I suppose they make up a +better staff than the mob of Anguses and Annies that must have slept on +the stairs and in the kitchens of the Old House in the grand old days +of the MacAskivals--before Donald MacAskival was sold up, I mean. Miss +MacAskival has told you something of the history of the family? Quite +so. And speaking of old Donald MacAskival, who died raving in the New +House, I have a curiosity to show you.” Jackman, going to a cupboard +set in the wall, carefully drew out a heavy box and set it on the table +before Logan. + +The big box, or rather casket, seemed to be carved from a single block +of stone, almost blue in color, but here and there shading into gray. +The lid was of the same polished stone. “If the servants had the +slightest notion of the value of these,” Jackman remarked, “I should +have to put the casket under lock and key.” He lifted the lid and +began to lift out strange stone figures, each some five inches high. +“You play chess, Mr. Logan? I have a marble chessboard here--modern, +I regret to say. But these chessmen are ancient, and Norse. They are +called the Table-Men of Askival.” + +The little statuettes were marvellously carved by some master of the +Viking age. Each was wrapped in cotton-wool, and Jackman put them +deftly in place on the marble board. They were of the same blue stone +as the casket in which they had lain; and, after a thousand years, they +remained almost perfect, only three or four being badly chipped. “The +chiefs of MacAskival would have slit a hundred throats rather than have +parted with these toys,” Jackman went on. “For more than a century, +it was thought they were lost altogether, but Sir Alastair MacAskival +discovered them when he was restoring the family tombs by St. Merin’s +Chapel. The casket was resting, of all places, in the stone coffin +that is said to be Askival’s own tomb. Perhaps Donald MacAskival hid +them there when his creditors were hard at his heels, for even in the +eighteenth century these things would have brought a pretty price. If +so, they are all he left to his descendants. Sir Alastair died less +than a month after the finding of these, and Lady MacAskival has told +no one of them, so far as I am aware; so you are looking at works of +art never photographed or catalogued by the museum-people. Do you ever +go to the Queen Street Museum in Edinburgh? No? A pity. There they +have walrus-ivory chessmen from Lewis, also Norse work, and perhaps +as old as these. And there are others in the British Museum. You have +not visited the British Museum? Once, like Marx, I went there daily. +But I presume it is all _l.s.d._ with you, Mr. Logan. ‘Put money in thy +purse, and yet again, put money in thy purse.’ So the world goes. Shall +we make a game of it as we talk?” + +Yes, fearfully and wonderfully made, these chessmen. The kings held +drawn swords across their knees, and stared stonily out of bulging +merciless eyes; the queens, with long wild faces, held daggers; the +rooks were berserkers, biting on their shields; and all the other +pieces, even the pawns, were modelled from the life of the age of the +Sea-Kings. One set of men had been saturated in some reddish dye or +paint; the other retained its natural blue hue. To play with these +priceless and timeless things was to sink into a remote past. “They’re +very nice, I’m sure,” Logan the bank-clerk said, with what he trusted +was a Philistine indifference. “Aye, I’ll play you a game, sir, if +you’ll promise me I sha’n’t miss my spot of tea with Miss Mary.” + +“Miss MacAskival will excuse you; and it occurs to my mind, Logan, that +perhaps we can discuss certain delicate matters more easily in the +progress of a match. But I warn you, Mr. Logan, that I rarely lose. +Here: I submit to a handicap.” Jackman removed his own queen from the +board. “No protests: I think you’ll find me an old hand at chess.” + +Logan advanced the pawn before his queen’s bishop. “I’ve had many a +grand match at the West End Young Men’s Society for the Advancement of +Chess, Dr. Jackman.” + +“Indeed.” Jackman made a similar move with his king’s bishop’s pawn. +“Now the question of marriage aside, Mr. Logan, I don’t suppose you’d +choose to live in a great rambling ill-lit place such as the Old House +of Fear is, would you?” + +“Oh, never in the world, sir.” Logan moved again, and lost a pawn +to Jackman. “No, sir, give me a nice semi-detached villa beyond +Bruntsfield Links, any day. Even the New Town of Edinburgh is too old +and stuffy for my taste, Dr. Jackman. I like a bit of a rockery in the +front garden, and an Aga cooker, and a fridge, and a parlor with a pair +of Portobello china dogs by the hearth.” He advanced his king’s knight. + +Jackman shot a sharp glance at him. Had he overplayed his role a +trifle? Logan wondered. The Aga cooker and the Portobello dogs were +spreading the butter rather thick. He smiled ingenuously at Dr. +Jackman; and apparently the smile was fatuous enough to convince that +alarming gentleman. + +“That is precisely the sort of man I took you to be, Logan: my +congratulations. And do you think Miss MacAskival would share these +reasonable ambitions?” He took Logan’s knight. + +Logan captured one of Jackman’s pawns. “I don’t see why Mary shouldn’t, +sir; she’s a canny lass, and the day of grand houses like this one is +long past.” + +Having sent a bishop on a raid deep into Logan’s territory, Jackman +leaned back in his armchair. “Canny, Mr. Logan? Sensible? Miss +MacAskival? Charming, certainly; beautiful, at least in many eyes; but +canny is the last word I should apply to her. I consider her my ward +_de facto_, you understand, and what I say now is for her good and your +own, and is to be held in confidence.” + +Logan took one of Jackman’s knights. “Perhaps you’ll take the trouble +to enlighten me, Dr. Jackman.” He hunched forward, the picture of the +respectful and hopeful young man on the rise. + +Jackman frowned at the chessboard. “I take it that Miss MacAskival +has given you to understand that she has large expectations, or +possibly that she already has ample independent means? That she is Lady +MacAskival’s heiress?” + +“Why, sir, we’ve not discussed the matter in detail, but I have assumed +that Mary was to have her due.” + +“Her due, Mr. Logan? To be quite frank, Miss MacAskival is very little +better than a waif. Her grandfather was first cousin to Sir Alastair +MacAskival--though the closest male relative left to Sir Alastair, at +the end of his life. But Sir Alastair and his cousin were on bad terms; +and, in any event, Miss Mary MacAskival was born nearly a generation +after old Sir Alastair died. This is a most tenuous family bond, you +see, although it is true that the old line of MacAskival being almost +extinct altogether, Mary MacAskival has a better claim than anyone else +to be the head of her little dispersed and forgotten clan. Our Mary’s +father was a ship’s second mate, and drowned off Naples in the late +war. The girl, who cannot remember her father, was left with the widow +at a village in North Uist. Had matters followed their usual course, +probably she would have grown up knitting sweaters and milking cows, +and have married some crofter. But then her mother died. The girl was +left quite alone. + +“Lady MacAskival is an old friend of mine, but I cannot say she has +been known for openhandedness. A minister in North Uist wrote to +her, however; and, oddly enough, Lady MacAskival agreed to take the +child into her own household and provide for her schooling. Perhaps +Lady MacAskival felt she owed some debt to her husband’s name; she is +oppressed by a sense of guilt where her husband is concerned, but I +sha’n’t enter into that. Whatever her reason, she took the girl Mary, +and sent her to good schools--to the convent-school at Bridge of Earn, +most recently. I must make it clear here, Mr. Logan, that she did not +adopt Miss MacAskival, nor make any provision for her future.” + +Jackman’s narration did not take his mind altogether from the +chess-match. He played with assurance and even arrogance, while Logan +lost three more pieces to him. Logan set his face in an expression +meant to suggest alarm at both the account of Mary MacAskival and the +match. + +“What’s in a name, Mr. Logan,” Jackman continued, “or in the +inheritance of family traits? The scientists have been at work on these +things for a century and better, but nothing is settled. Possibly +you followed the course of the Lysenko affair in the Soviet Union? +No, I didn’t suppose that was an especial interest of yours. As I +said, these problems of hereditary traits are not settled, though for +my part I feel confident that the Russians will give us the answers +before 1965. Well, our Miss Mary MacAskival seems to offer some +decided evidence that a certain type of character is conveyed from +generation to generation within a family, whether the cause is genetic +or environmental. Since time out of mind, the MacAskival men and +women--the family of the chiefs, I mean--have been rash, spendthrift, +fearless, and--why, promiscuous, shall we say. Sir Alastair was an +exception, true, going to the contrary extreme. It has been a family +exceedingly inbred. I think I am not venturing too far when I suggest +that the stock is worn out. The qualities I mentioned just now were +dominant in both Mary’s father and mother. The beauty and the daring +may survive long after the strength and the wits are gone.” + +“Dr. Jackman, what are you telling me?” Logan deliberately threw a +strong burr into his words, to simulate dismay; and his disturbance was +not altogether feigned. But he did not neglect to take Dr. Jackman’s +other knight. + +Jackman compressed his mouth, as if pained at the necessity for +speaking out. “Lady MacAskival, while she was still in full possession +of her faculties, gave me a detailed account of the girl’s +conduct--sometimes she calls Mary her niece, out of kindness--from the +age of seven upward. I have made some serious study in the realm of +psychiatric disturbances, if I may say so, Mr. Logan. From the month +Lady MacAskival took the child under her patronage, there was trouble +with the girl. The reports from the schools--she changed schools a +number of times--were disturbing. Mary was haughty, full of notions +of her family’s importance; shy, at the same time; and sometimes what +I must call ferocious. Compensation, perhaps; no doubt she was very +lonely. Lady MacAskival is not a cordial woman, and, besides, Mary saw +her ‘aunt’ very seldom; and she did not make many friends at school. +And now I am about to tell you something that may shock you, Logan, or +may not. Did it ever occur to your mind that sexual overindulgence, +like drunkenness, often is a retreat into a world of fantasy, caused by +a deep unhappiness in this real world? Our Mary has fed on fantasies of +one sort or another, it seems, ever since she was a baby. For her, the +legends of Carnglass, for instance, are real: real in the most literal +sense of that word. She might happen to identify you with her legendary +ancestor, Sigurd Askival; and herself with his bride, Merin or Marin; +and me with--why, the monster, the man-goat, the tyrant: the Firgower, +that pleasant creature we see overhead.” + +“Check,” said Logan. Jackman retrieved his situation promptly. “Aye, +sir,” Logan said, “I know Mary is dreamy; but that’s small harm, if +we’ve money enough for the whole of our lives.” + +“I scarcely think you understand how extremely and dangerously fanciful +Miss MacAskival is, Mr. Logan; nor what consequences that sort of +mental sickness may lead to. She may have let you think, for instance, +that she’s a great heiress, or rich already. In plain fact, she hasn’t +a shilling of her own, and I may have difficulty in persuading Lady +MacAskival to leave her two or three thousand pounds. My old friend +says she has given the girl--who is no kin of hers really--schooling +and breeding enough to make her a governess or schoolmistress; and +she owes her no more. What is worse, perhaps, Mary lives in her +own irrational private world of gods and devils. And that way lies +... why, extreme eccentricity, at the least. And then there is the +concupiscence, which may be an inherited tendency, or at least the next +thing to a biological characteristic.” + +Logan took another pawn. “Oh, surely now, Dr. Jackman, you don’t mean +to say that my Mary’s a wild girl?” + +Jackman reached gently across the board and gave Logan a pat on the +shoulder. “It’s best to know these things early, Logan. I do mean just +that. When our Mary was scarcely thirteen, there was--well, what I +really must call an affair with a farm laborer here in Carnglass, in +the summer. The man was dismissed as soon as the thing was discovered; +he could have been sent to prison, I suppose. And yet he does not seem +to have taken the initiative. Then there was a report from school that +the girl was found with an hotel porter. I sha’n’t say more concerning +that. There have been two lesser incidents of the same nature--two that +we know of. And finally, your case.” + +“Dr. Jackman!” Logan had half convinced himself that he really was +a decent, ambitious bank-clerk, and threw corresponding indignation +and bewilderment into his outcry. “Dr. Jackman! I’d never think of +anything--anything not proper with Mary. I mean the girl to be my wife, +Dr. Jackman.” + +Jackman raised his eyebrows. “Frankly, now: would you care to begin +married life with a young woman of these tendencies? Possibly you don’t +quite believe what I’ve told you, though I could show you letters. +Yet you’d discover the truth after marriage, if you refused to credit +it before. So far as your own conduct is concerned, Mr. Logan, I’m +satisfied that you have behaved decently. But look at the matter from +another point of view. Here is a girl who throws herself at the head +of a young man she encounters casually in a bank, because he is bold +enough to say he likes her ankles. She invites him to her house without +even informing her guardians. She conducts, I suppose, some clandestine +correspondence with him. She rushes into his arms after not having seen +him for three months. Really, Lady MacAskival ought not to have allowed +Mary that Christmas holiday in Edinburgh.” + +“Dr. Jackman,” Logan said, “I trust you, and I see you’re an educated +man. As for me, I never attended the varsity; it was not my line. But +cannot this be all rumor and misunderstanding about Mary?” + +“I don’t mean to be harsh upon the girl; after all, she is as much of +a daughter as I possess, Logan. Oh, check again, by the way. I am not +condemning--only explaining. I doubt if the girl can help herself. +I suspect the concupiscence is in the blood. And her loneliness +contributes: as I suggested, sexual promiscuity sometimes is more a +symptom of a disorder than a disorder itself. I will be entirely blunt, +if you will allow me, Mr. Logan: in the legal meaning of the phrase, +and in other meanings, Mary MacAskival is not sane. She is not sane +where men are concerned, nor in certain other matters. She suffers from +a variety of delusions--I give you my word. She might suddenly tell +you, for instance, that I, Edmund Jackman, desire to marry her--an +absurdity, because it would be almost as if I were to marry my own +granddaughter, of course. At times she has even come to me with--well, +shall we say hints and invitations? That was when no younger man was +available. It has been necessary to forbid her very strictly ever to +be alone even with the servants; Mr. Royall and I take care, one or +the other of us, to be in this house whenever she is. I’m sorry, Mr. +Logan. But to tell you all this is the best service I can render you.” + +“I had no notion, sir,” Logan told him. He took Jackman’s king’s rook. +And Logan had no difficulty in looking perplexed. Jackman was a very +different sort of being from the charlatan or bully he had thought +he might be. Those fine black eyes of Jackman’s looked candidly into +Logan’s. + +“And I confess I am somewhat surprised, Logan,” Jackman was saying, +“that you got yourself engaged to the girl while she is a minor.” + +“Oh, surely, Dr. Jackman, Mary’s old enough to choose for herself.” + +“I fear she already has chosen quite often, Logan; she began at a +tender age, to put it somewhat coarsely. You do know just how old she +is, I take it?” + +“Not precisely, sir; she would not tell me her birthday. She said I +ought not to spend the money for a present. Nineteen, nearing twenty, I +suppose?” + +“Then I have been unjust to you, Logan. If you had known ... Miss Mary +MacAskival is barely fifteen. She prevaricates on that topic, as on +many others. Of course, as any man with eyes in his head can see, Mary +is a well-developed girl. Again, it runs in her family, I am told. +Physically mature, yes; but emotionally and morally immature; and +always will be.” + +Why this disclosure affected Logan so deeply, he hardly could explain +to himself. It was as if he actually had turned himself into the +fictitious bank-clerk he was impersonating. In this matter, as in +related matters, he might have been on the verge of making a great fool +of himself. He had begun to fancy himself in the role of Galahad--or of +Sigurd Askival--rescuing a beautiful maiden from a wicked enchanter. +And it seemed to be turning out that the maiden was no maid, nor right +in the head; and that the enchanter was by no means thoroughly wicked. +He had listened to a drunken Irish terrorist spreading scandals +about an unknown Dr. Jackman. He had not the least proof, indeed, +that Jackman had any real connection with J. Dowie, Commission Agent, +or with Captain Gare of the frightened eyes; they might be someone +else’s agents, perhaps in the pay of those London connections of Lady +MacAskival. It remained possible, and even probable, that this Dr. +Jackman had aspirations after some of Lady MacAskival’s money; but he +doubted very much whether Jackman was a conspirator, or a saboteur, or +even a charlatan. Some sort of political radical, likely enough; and a +dabbler in odd learned subjects; but a keen and even likeable man. And +for what had Logan been paid to come to Carnglass? Not to criticize +Dr. Jackman’s character, or to carry off young women--or children--of +doubtful morals, but merely to buy a piece of real estate for his +principal. He might have made a thoroughgoing fool of himself. Indeed, +he had done so already. He had put himself in a ridiculous light with +Jackman by accepting the role of suitor which Mary MacAskival, in her +madcap childish way, had thrust upon him. He had sent a silly note to +the police in Glasgow--though that would do no real harm, since surely +Donley had no intention of delivering it. He may have helped a murderer +escape from the island--almost surely he had done just that. He was +almost an accomplice, what with the Irishman’s gun hidden in a sling +under his arm. Yes, he was a damned fool; and he might have to play the +fool a while longer, if only to extricate himself from this folly. He +moved at hazard on the chessboard; the glaring eyes of a berserker-rook +confronted him. One misgiving, however, did come into his head. + +“Dr. Jackman,” he said, “I understand there was a factor, a Mr. Lagg. +Where is he?” + +Jackman seemed taken aback at this _non sequitur_. “Surely Mary has +told you....” + +“No, we had only a moment together before you came into the parlor, +sir. She had simply mentioned a puzzle of sorts, with Mr. Lagg +involved.” + +Jackman was solemn and troubled. “I am virtually certain, Mr. Logan, +that Lagg has been murdered. We have searched every nook in the island +for him, these three days; but not a trace. As I have pieced matters +together, Donley drank too much and broke into Lagg’s house in search +of money. Lagg was very much of a Scot--if you’ll pardon me, Mr. +Logan--and the servants talked of how he hoarded five-pound notes in +his kitchen. Perhaps Lagg returned from a visit to the farm while +Donley was doing his mischief. From the wreckage inside the New House, +we can only conjecture that there was a struggle. Donley, we know to +our sorrow, was armed. He may have forced Lagg, at the point of his +pistol, to the cliff’s edge. But we cannot find the body. Then, after +Lagg had disappeared and we had begun to question Donley, that Irishman +broke away and ran into the bracken. In the evening he came down and +burnt our boats, to keep us from reaching the police or in an attempt +to get a boat for his escape; and we have been after him ever since. +Presumably he is short of ammunition by this time. In the fight at the +harbor, he threw burning petrol into the boats, and one of our boatmen +was terribly burnt, poor fellow, and probably will lose the sight of at +least one eye; I must dress his face again tonight. But Lagg? A gone +gosling, I am very much afraid. And an efficient factor, for years.” + +This account of Lagg’s end held together much better than did Donley’s. +And Logan had told Donley he might bear witness for him at any trial! +No whisper of this Carnglass episode, he hoped, would filter back to +America. At this moment, Jackman took Logan’s queen. Yes, Hugh Logan +had made a fool of himself through and through. + +“But to return to a topic almost equally difficult for me, Logan: I +think you will perceive that your marrying Miss MacAskival is wholly +out of the question. To begin with, she simply isn’t of age. Besides, +the shock of an announcement of that sort might put an end to Lady +MacAskival, who is very old and very sick. And for your own sake, +Logan--and I rather like your face and your ways--don’t be rash. If +you still care for the girl after what I’ve told you, give her time to +reach moral womanhood, if ever she can. I don’t say you need to break +off the affair altogether. Be gentle with her; go back to Edinburgh; +exchange letters now and then, if you like. But marriage, for the next +two or three years, would be a catastrophe, I assure you.” + +“Perhaps you’re right, Dr. Jackman,” Logan replied, still in his +bank-clerk role. + +“I usually am right,” Jackman told him, smiling. “And there’s this: it +is worth something to Lady MacAskival to have a decent young man treat +her ward decently. My recommendations happen to carry considerable +weight with Lady MacAskival. Mary does not need a husband or a lover, +but she does need a friend. And I can see that you mean to move ahead +in the world; and you deserve to, Logan. So if you can contrive to act +as I suggest, where our Mary is concerned, I think I can guarantee that +Lady MacAskival will give you a cheque for fifteen hundred pounds. I +have no intention of bribing you: I know you’re above that. But you +deserve some compensation for the disappointment you’ve had, and for my +part, I’d not be sorry to give you a leg up in the world. Don’t feel +insulted, Logan. I put it to you plainly: will you do us the honor of +accepting that cheque?” + +What Logan might have done had he truly been the fictitious bank-clerk, +he did not know. But as an experienced lawyer, he was disturbed by this +offer. It was too much money for no real service. If once he had been +inclined to mistake Dr. Jackman for a thorough scoundrel, it would +not do now to make a model philanthropist of him. Of course he could +not really take the money, being Hugh Logan; yet he could accept the +cheque as the fictitious Logan and destroy it later. What he said was, +“If you’ll allow me, sir, I’ll sleep on your offer and give you my +answer tomorrow.” + +“A sound policy.” Jackman lightly tapped his shoulder again. “And +I believe I know already what your decision will be, Logan. Ah: +checkmate.” Jackman had won the match with the thousand-year-old +chessmen, despite his handicap. + +Dr. Jackman rose. “We dine at seven, here in my study, Mr. Logan. In +the Old House we have neither electricity nor running hot water--Lady +MacAskival does not care for modern comfort--but old Agnes will bring +hot water and a lamp to your room. I’ll show you there in a moment. But +before the sun goes down, shall we enjoy the view from the battlements? +I think the mist has lifted a trifle, though you come to us in a +clouded month. By the way, Miss MacAskival will be at dinner with us. +I ask you to say as little as possible to her about my observations, +should you talk with her alone before dinner, or later--for her own +interest, you understand, Logan. A personality as unbalanced as hers +might be permanently affected by imprudent reproaches. I trust to your +Scottish discretion. Just up the stair, now.” + +They emerged upon the lead of the roof from under the conical-capped +turret. A narrow walk led round the gabled cap of the great tower, +between the stone slabs of the gable itself and the machicolations +of the battlements. Before them was Askival harbor, the sunken yacht +black against the pier; and beyond, across the foggy ocean, the sun was +descending in a diffused glory. Despite its climate, Carnglass was a +beautiful island. A corncrake flew low above the tower. Far below, in +the policies, a jungle of rhododendrons was in bloom. And five armed +men were walking up to the gate in the Edwardian block of the Old House +of Fear. + +“Mr. Royall!” Jackman called. The five looked up, and the leader, +that “walking cadaver,” formed his thin hands into a trumpet. Even at +this distance, his pallid face and protruding teeth were ugly in the +extreme: a queer sort of secretary, this skeleton-like man with a rifle +slung over his shoulder. “Mr. Royall!” Jackman cried out. “What luck?” +The five men below stared in astonishment at Logan, beside Jackman at +the battlements. The four hangdog faces behind Royall aroused a vague +discomfort at the back of Logan’s mind. + +“Rab and Carruthers have strayed, Dr. Jackman,” Royall called back. +“Can you see them from the tower?” Though Jackman and Logan looked to +north and east, there was not a sign of the other two men. + +“Is there no trace of Donley?” Jackman shouted. Gesturing dispiritedly, +Royall shouted back, “I’ll explain when I come up.” + +“I doubt whether we can give you a decent dinner, Mr. Logan,” +Jackman said as they turned back to the turret-stair. “Our cook, you +understand, has been out with the searching-party, and we have had to +press the butler into service in the kitchen. Have you ever lived in a +state of siege? A mad island, this Carnglass.” + +“Fish and chips would do nicely, thank you,” Logan told him. “I’ve not +had a bite these twenty hours.” He still was the bank-clerk; it might +be difficult to abandon this play-acting. + +“Really, I scarcely think Miss MacAskival would care for fish and chips +week in and week out, Logan.” Dr. Jackman said it drily. The man, after +all, was doing no more than his duty in sheltering his friend’s ward +from an unpromising suitor. Suppose, Logan thought, I were to tell +him what I really am: how would he act then? Yet an impulse cautioned +Logan to play this little deception according to its rules until he had +talked with Miss Mary MacAskival, the girl of fifteen with the green +eyes, the red hair, and the spotted past. + + + + +8 + + +On those cold and dark stairs, Miss Mary MacAskival met them, her quick +and rounded little body, her rosy cheeks and lively eyes defying the +barbarous spell of the old tower. She sent Logan a darting, inquiring +glance, but it was to Jackman she spoke. “I heard the men outside,” she +said. “Really, you ought to let me lead the search. I know every bush +and cranny of Carnglass, but they’re stupid townfolk.” + +Jackman frowned. “I may have to lead them myself, Miss MacAskival: +Rab and Carruthers seem to have lost their way. I’ll have a word +with Royall. Will you be good enough to take Mr. Logan to see Lady +MacAskival for a moment? And then bring him to the study for dinner. +Don’t be long.” He sent out a hand as if to touch her lightly +on the shoulder, but the girl drew back cleverly, almost as if +unintentionally, against the curving stair-wall, and Jackman passed by +her, ignoring the repulse. “Don’t forget the advice I gave you, Mr. +Logan,” he said softly, disappearing down the spiral of the stair. + +At that instant, a most unpleasant recollection came into Logan’s head. +An hour earlier, in the painted study, he had given his rucksack to +Tompkins to be carried to his room. And in that pack were his passport +and other papers. That man Tompkins, by the look of him, would pry +into everything, even had he been only butler in a normal country +house; and this was no normal place. The moment Jackman talked with +Tompkins, Logan’s real identity would be known; and then there would be +trouble--though just what sort of trouble, Logan was not quite sure. +His dismay showed in his face. + +Mary MacAskival was looking at him in concern. “What is it, Hugh?” (So +it was “Hugh” even in private now, Logan thought, and on very short +acquaintance, which seemed to confirm Dr. Jackman’s account of this +odd little girl’s very forward ways with men.) Whatever else she was, +she had a quick mind, though; for she added, after a moment’s pause, +“Are you thinking of your rucksack? You needn’t. I met Tompkins on the +stair and took it from him before he had any chance of a look into it. +And I took your papers and put them into a hidie-hole--the Old House is +mostly hidie-holes--where only I could possibly find them again. Then I +put the rest of your things into your room. Do you mind? I can get the +papers for you whenever you like, but we mustn’t let Dr. Jackman know +you’re from America. You’d not be safe then. You’re not particularly +safe even now. I’m sorry.” Those mobile red lips framed the “sorry” +with a pathetic beauty. Indeed, it was a pity that Mary MacAskival was +what she was. + +“Thank you, Miss MacAskival,” Logan said. “Probably I’ll need the +papers after dinner. Shall we go down to Lady MacAskival now?” His +voice sounded cold even to himself. He needed a little time to think. +The girl’s charm--her glamour, literally--was too near to him on this +clammy sepulchral stair. How did those rosy little feet of hers endure +the damp, attractively bare as they were? But he must get his mind off +the girl: she was only fifteen, and bad medicine. + +“Hugh!” Mary MacAskival spoke his name reproachfully, and now a little +haughtily. “Hugh! It’s not only your papers you’re thinking of. What is +it? This is a house of secrets, but you and I mustn’t have secrets from +each other. You weren’t sent to me to keep secrets from me. What is +it?” Logan hesitated, and the girl’s mind leaped swiftly to the usual +conclusion any woman reaches when two men have been talking seriously +in her absence. “What is it? Were you and Dr. Jackman talking of me?” +In this instance, the woman’s instinct spoke truly. + +Logan looked her full in the face. “Yes, we were.” + +Over the girl’s delicious heart-shaped face, with its high cheek-bones +and rather deep-set green eyes, spread a crimson flush, suffusing all +the delicate white skin. It would have been a beautiful thing to watch, +Logan thought, if it had not been a mark of guilt. The finely-moulded +nose and chin went up. “Then you heard nothing good,” said Mary +MacAskival, deliberately. She turned, as if to avert her telltale young +face, and led the way down the stairs. “Dr. Jackman is the father of +lies. But now I will take you to my aunt.” + +A doorway in the immense thickness of the medieval tower-wall led into +the Renaissance range of the Old House. Here the plaster ceiling of a +great book-lined corridor was moulded into baroque shells and swags and +Lord knows what fantastic designs. An odor of damp and musty leather +came from the shelves; this library could have been used little since +Sir Alastair’s time. The little barefoot beauty walked beside him, +still a trifle flushed and defiant, but apparently not hopeless of +winning him over; Logan thought for a moment she actually meant to +take his hand; but if she did have that impulse, she thought better +of it. “After dinner,” she murmured, “if we can be alone, there are +things that must be told you. Not here: there’s not enough time, and we +could be overheard.” She noticed his glance at her exquisitely narrow +bare feet, which here trod upon Oriental carpet, in utter silence; she +smiled a trifle coquettishly, and said, “I was reared barefoot, and +don’t like shoes and stockings in the house. Besides, when I’m this +way, I can scamper all over the house, and _they_ don’t know where I +am--nor when I’m listening to them. Do you mind? I know it’s not the +way to receive foreign guests; but you are our first foreign guest, +and I don’t think you stand on ceremony. Here’s my aunt’s bedroom; she +never leaves it now. Only Agnes will be with her.” The girl pushed open +a heavy carven door, and they entered an immense gloomy room. + +There the walls were hung from cornice to floor with square panels of +leather, stamped in gold leaf with some intricate pattern of dancing +figures; Logan thought he made out the figure of a capering goat +in this design, but could not be sure in the twilight of the room. +These hangings must have been long neglected, for splotches of white +water-stain showed here and there, and some of the panels had pulled +almost loose from the stitching that held them one to another, so that +the stone of the walls showed through the gaps. Nearly in the middle +of the room stood a vast ancient canopied bed, the curtains drawn +back. Beside it, huddled on a stool, an old serving-woman looked with +lacklustre eyes at Logan, cringing aside to let him approach the bed: +this would be Agnes, the shawlie. Certainly she was timid--could she be +trembling, or was it a slight palsy? Then he made out the shape under +the rich covers upon the bed. + +Lady MacAskival lay with closed eyes, and she was very nearly a corpse: +almost bloodless, and her face and hands grotesquely wrinkled. Could +this pallid immobile thing once have been a beautiful woman of fashion, +no better than she should have been--like little Mary MacAskival, +perhaps? At their best, Logan suspected, the features must have been +slightly vulgar. Mary MacAskival slid between him and the bed-rail. +“Aunt!” she whispered, very low. “Aunt, Mr. Logan has come.” + +The wrinkled eyelids slid back, snakelike. The fingers of the +desiccated left hand stirred slightly. The withered lips writhed, +almost as if the ancient creature would have burst into a scream, but +no sound came forth. + +“Aunt,” said Mary MacAskival, “he may be trusted.” + +Those purblind eyes of the failing woman flickered, for a moment or +two, with intelligence. But Logan could not have meant much to her; +possibly he was but a dream within a dream, drifting through limbo, +less unpleasant than the terrors that often clustered round the +bedstead. For either this old woman was drugged, Logan thought, or +else she existed, tortoise-like and impotent, in a realm of perpetual +terror. In those weary eyes was frozen fright, fright grown so familiar +that it was almost identical with consciousness. What kept her alive? +Surely she would have been happy to escape from this terror--unless she +fancied that worse horrors lay in wait for her beyond the grave. + +Now her lips moved, and very faint sounds came forth. “Not Alastair,” +Lady MacAskival whispered. “Not Alastair. Good. Go--go with him, Mary. +When I am done. He is not the goat, no. Is he Askival? Is he flesh? +In Carnglass it is all mist.” The lids slid back again; the left hand +ceased to claw at the covers; one would have thought the woman dead, +had not nostrils and chest stirred ever so slightly with her labored +breathing. Mary MacAskival drew Logan through the still room to the +door. + +They were back in the book-lined corridor. “Is she under drugs?” Logan +asked. + +“No,” said the girl, calmly enough, “only hypnotism--and terror. If +you had seen the chairs rise up of themselves in this house, and eyes +glowing in the dark where no living thing could be, and heard the +footsteps in this hall, and if you were very old--why, I think even +you would lie there like my aunt, Hugh.” + +“Who did these things?” + +“Dr. Jackman and Mr. Royall--who else? They have come near to putting +me out of my wits. And now and then they put Dr. Jackman himself out of +his wits. He believes, in part at least, though Mr. Royall does not, I +think. Dr. Jackman has said he will call old Sir Alastair from under +the stone by St. Merin’s Chapel. He has said he has made Sir Alastair +walk down this very passage where you and I stand.” + +Logan looked involuntarily over his shoulder: but of course there was +nothing but mouldy books and hangings and family portraits. In this +strange place, minds might scamper after any vagary. “Does your aunt +wish to see her dead husband?” + +“Not she. She feared him while he lived, and she feared him more once +he died; and things lie heavy on her conscience. She will give Dr. +Jackman anything he wants, so long as he keeps Sir Alastair this side +of her bedroom door.” The girl was almost conversational about it all: +surely she was either quite mad, or had a grip upon her nerves stronger +than that of any woman Logan had known. What lay at her heart, Logan +could not even guess; what could be seen was delectable enough, but +Logan put no trust in her. Yet, trollop though she might be, Logan +resolved to play his masquerade a little while yet, so far as Jackman +was concerned, for her sake and his own. + +“Now tell me this, Miss MacAskival,” said Logan, “just how old....” +Then he heard something in the passage, toward the tower; and so +did the girl; and they turned simultaneously. Logan felt tempted to +reach for the little gun under his tweed jacket, but refrained. And, +after all, it was only that shifty butler. “Dinner is served. Miss +MacAskival,” Tompkins murmured, quite deferentially, and withdrew back +toward the tower. + +“Later,” Mary MacAskival said, very low, as they followed Tompkins. +“Later I’ll tell you everything that can be told. Now you must meet +Mr. Royall.” They went up the ancient stairs again, and passed into +the study. It was dark now, but the study was cheerful enough. Many +candles, in eighteenth-century silver candlesticks, had been lit; a +square table was laid with a cloth and good china; there was soup being +kept warm by a paraffin lamp on a sideboard. Tompkins had gone down +somewhere to the kitchen, assisted by a footman whose grumbling voice +Logan could hear below--Anderson, perhaps; and Jackman and Royall were +not yet in the room: doubtless the two of them were discussing Hugh +Logan thoroughly. Mary MacAskival, leaning gracefully against the piano +which occupied a corner, pointed a little finger toward the painted +ceiling. + +“Do you know what _that_ is?” She meant the painted monster called +the Firgower, only dimly visible by the candlelight, away up there in +the shadows. “Oh, Dr. Jackman told you? He should: for he _is_ the +Firgower, you know. Why do you look at me so queerly? Of course Dr. +Jackman is the Firgower; he’d tell you so himself, if he were candid. +He has told me so. You saw the hole in his forehead: that’s his third +eye. He sees Sir Alastair MacAskival with his third eye, and tells my +aunt.” She took a candlestick from the table, and, standing on tiptoe, +lifted it as high toward the ceiling as her little body could reach. +“Now come here, Hugh Logan, and look close.” + +The painted horrid goat-face of the Firgower stared down at Logan; it +seemed to smirk and leer and scowl all at once. “Its forehead--look,” +the girl went on. + +Now Logan could make out that in the middle of that painted forehead, +with horns sprouting above it, was a third eye, faintly visible. It +was much less distinct than the two normal goat-slit eyes, but it +was very like them. “I don’t know whether it was painted so,” Mary +MacAskival murmured in Logan’s ear, leaning a pretty hand on his +shoulder, “or whether that nasty third eye wore on the nerves of Sir +Alastair or someone else, so that perhaps someone put a trifle of +white paint over it. It’s no less an eye than Dr. Jackman’s. Do you +understand? That’s Dr. Jackman’s portrait, so to speak. I’m ever so +glad _you_ do not have a third eye.” + +Logan turned his head to look at this queer little lovely creature. Was +she lunatic, coquette, or infinitely subtle? They two stood so close +together that his nose touched hers. His right arm almost went round +her, as she stood there on tiptoe; but just then boots sounded on the +stair, and Miss MacAskival drew away. “My poor bare feet!” she said. +“I’m forgetting my manners. Whatever would they say at the convent? +They never let young ladies dine there barefoot, you know. I leave you +to Dr. Jackman and his secretary, but I’ll be back before the soup has +gone quite cold.” With a little swirl of her skirt, she sprang, rather +than stepped, through the heavy doorway, and was gone. + +She must have passed Jackman and Royall on the stair, for they came in +immediately. “Mr. Logan,” Jackman said, “Mr. Royall, my secretary.” +The death’s-head secretary nodded curtly. Once the man began to speak, +Logan perceived with relief that he was an Englishman, like Jackman, +though probably from Yorkshire; had he been a Scot, he might have seen +through Logan’s masquerade. Logan would talk as little as possible to +the Scots among the servants, lest he give himself away. + +Royall made some perfunctory observations about the hunt for Donley, +the weather, and all that. A cold fish, but a keen one, Logan hazarded. +He was well educated, surely; Logan suspected that he might once have +been a fairly high-ranking civil servant; somehow there was the +mark of Winchester school upon him. Yet now he was secretary to this +pseudo-doctor, in an island at the back of beyond. Why? Had Royall been +dismissed from some civil post--for unreliability of sorts? The man was +sick; the signs of a gnawing illness were plain upon his pallid face; +and yet Logan guessed--though perhaps he was becoming fanciful, in this +house of shadows--that the real cause of his trouble was some sickness +not of the body, but of the spirit. Could one trust Royall? If one were +of the same faith, undoubtedly; on the man’s grim features was set +fanaticism, not simple criminality. + +“Do you have a taste for letters, Mr. Logan?” Royall inquired abruptly, +in his hoarse voice. Jackman had said very little, but stood back in +the shadows, watching, as if he had agreed to let his secretary do the +prying this night. Tompkins came round with a tray of sherry-glasses, +and Logan sipped before he replied. + +“Why, now, Mr. Royall,” Logan said, “I must admit I am fond of Rabbie +Burns. Burns, sir, is the poet of the Scottish nation. No nonsense for +Rabbie Burns. I don’t mind saying, Mr. Royall, that at the British +Linen Bank, Lawnmarket Branch, we know an honest man’s the noblest work +of God. How does Burns express it, sir? ‘The rank is but the guinea’s +stamp....’” + +Here Mary MacAskival returned, with neat shoes on her feet, and cotton +stockings. Jackman and Royall bowed to her slightly, and the four of +them sat down to dinner, Tompkins putting the soup before them. Without +bothering to taste his soup, Royall pursued the topic. + +“I suppose you know, Mr. Logan, that Burns is perhaps the most popular +English writer in the Soviet Union today.” Royall’s sunken eyes seemed +to expect some significant response to this. + +“Indeed, sir?” Logan said, ingenuously. “Why, now, I would have +thought there would be difficulties in doing Rabbie Burns into the +Russian tongue.” + +“The Soviet Russians, Mr. Logan, are masters of translation. Yes, they +appreciate Burns. At a conference in the Crimea, not so very long ago, +I had the honor to be asked to read Burns aloud, in English, to a group +of intellectuals. I found they especially enjoyed the final stanza of +‘For a’ That and a’ That.’ How does it go-- + + ‘For a’ that, and a’ that, + It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that, + That man to man, the warld o’er, + Shall brothers be for a’ that.’ + +Do I have it quite right, Mr. Logan?” Royall gave him another long +stare. + +“Aye, as I mind it, it goes so, Mr. Royall. Very sound +sentiments--brothers the world o’er.” Logan smiled at him. + +Royall hesitated; then, “Would you care to give me a gloss on those +lines, Mr. Logan?” + +Logan looked puzzled, as indeed he was. “A gloss, sir? Now how do you +mean? A commentary?” + +“Mr. Royall thought some remarks might occur to your mind, Mr. Logan,” +Jackman put in. “Concerning international brotherhood, perhaps.” + +“Why, no, Dr. Jackman, I do not believe I could add anything.” Logan +turned, simpering, to Mary MacAskival. “Do you think of a proper +commentary, Mary, darling?” The girl shook her head slowly; her eyes, +their lids half lowered, moved uneasily from Jackman to Royall. +“Nevertheless, gentlemen,” Logan went on, still very much the Edinburgh +clerk, “we’ve had many a serious discussion of Rabbie Burns in the West +End Young Men’s Discussion Club. There’s profound meaning in Rabbie +Burns. Profound.” + +Royall’s eyes never had ceased to stare at Logan. Now Royall said, “An +acquaintance of mine who sometimes visits Edinburgh is an admirer of +Burns. Possibly you have met him: a Captain Gare.” + +Logan’s training as a lawyer served him well at that moment, for his +fatuous smile did not fade, nor did he start. “No, sir,” he told +Royall, “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of making the gentleman’s +acquaintance.” + +“And then,” said Royall, “I think of a commission agent in Glasgow, +a man of the people, who often has Burns on the tip of his tongue. +Perhaps you have encountered him. His name is Dowie, Jim Dowie.” + +“Dowie? I know a solicitor’s clerk of that name in Dalkeith; but he +reads only American thrillers, sir.” + +“So, Royall,” Dr. Jackman interjected, “it seems that our Mr. Logan +here is not a member, after all, of the little circle you had in mind. +You were quite mistaken, I fear; I told you he wouldn’t be. Mr. Logan +is a very honest and industrious rising young bank-clerk, I’m sure. But +speaking of your national poet Burns, I call to mind a verse you might +take to heart-- + + ‘My love she’s but a lassie yet, + My love she’s but a lassie yet, + We’ll let her stand a year or twa, + She’ll no be half sae saucy yet.’ + +Apropos, Mr. Logan?” + +The butler brought the main course, boiled mutton and potatoes, before +Logan had to reply. Logan noticed, as Tompkins served, that Mary +MacAskival’s face had gone crimson at Jackman’s quotation, and then +white again. + +“Tompkins,” Jackman said as the butler served him, “I take it that +Carruthers and Rab have returned by this time?” + +“No, Dr. Jackman.” Logan saw that Tompkins’ hands trembled slightly. +“Neither of them, sir. Not hide nor hair.” + +Jackman bit his lip. “Royall, where do you suppose they’ve got to? It +has been quite dark for more than an hour.” + +“Ah, well, sir,” Royall answered, “so long as the pair of them hang +together, no harm can come to them. They’re both armed with good +rifles, and they weren’t reared in ladies’ boudoirs. Rab knows rough +country well enough, and something of this island. I suppose they may +have been hot on Donley’s scent when the sun set, and bedded down in +one of the farmhouses or keepers’ cottages. I last saw them toward St. +Merin’s Chapel. No doubt they’ll report in the morning.” But Royall +seemed to have no appetite for his mutton. + +Jackman shrugged. “No doubt, no doubt.” That unpleasant patch on his +forehead twitched, almost as if he were trying to lift the lid of the +third eye. He turned toward Logan. “As you were about to say...?” + +“Why, Dr. Jackman”--but Logan smiled toward Mary MacAskival--“I had +thought of another verse from Rabbie Burns, that I like better than +yours; and it is this, sir-- + + ‘Gaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; + Thou’rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, + Nocht of ill may come thee near, + My bonnie dearie.’” + +“I think that’s very pretty, Hugh,” Mary MacAskival told him. She +looked toward Dr. Jackman: “‘Gaist nor bogle....’ A good phrase for the +Old House, is it not, Dr. Jackman? But whatever can have become of Rab +and Carruthers?” + +Jackman looked blacker still. “Leave that to us, if you please, my +dear.” He seemed about to add something when Mary MacAskival rose and +walked to the piano. + +“How very slow Tompkins is in bringing the sweet tonight! May I play +until he comes? Hugh, will you sing with me?” + +“You know I’ve no voice, Mary, darling,” Logan said, also rising, “but +I’ll play to your singing.” He did, indeed, play the piano reasonably +well. Miss MacAskival behaved as if she had always known it: wondrously +clever, that girl, for fifteen years. + +“I’ll set you the tune, Hugh,” she told him, seating herself at the +piano, “and then you can take my place here, and I’ll sing you a song +from Burns, if you like. Dr. Jackman, can you endure it? Mr. Royall?” + +“Of course,” Jackman told her, somewhat absently. He ran his lean hand +slowly over his forehead. Royall said nothing: he had stalked to a +window, opened it, and was staring uneasily into the night below. + +Miss MacAskival played pleasantly--an air Logan knew well, “Charlie +He’s My Darling.” Logan took her place at the piano then, and she stood +and began to sing. Her young voice was full and tolerably trained, and +very sweet. + + “An’ Charlie he’s my darling, + My darling, my darling, + Charlie he’s my darling, + The young Chevalier.” + +The night air of Carnglass crept into the ancient room through Royall’s +open window. There came the cry of some night bird, winging past the +Old House, and the heavy beat of the sea upon the pier of Askival +harbor. Mary’s voice swelled up: + + “Sae light’s he jimped up the stair, + And tirled at the pin; + And wha sae ready as hersel, + To let the laddie in.” + +Then, above the noise of the ocean, there came an unnatural sound, +echoing perhaps from the other side of the Old House. It was a burst +of horrid laughter, or so it seemed, ending in a desperate sob; then +silence; then the high dreadful cackle again. “The devil!” cried +Jackman, and leaped to join Royall at the window. Mary MacAskival +shivered, but sang the last verse: + + “It’s up yon hethery mountain, + And down yon scroggy glen, + We daur na gang a milking, + For Charlie and his men.” + +To Logan, the girl’s relative composure was as strange as the dreadful +yelling outside, but he played loyally on until “Charlie and his men” +died away. Then Mary swept from the piano to the window, and Logan was +right behind her. The laughter, if laughter it was, had ceased; and +nothing at all was to be seen through the mist. But in a moment, a shot +was fired; and then three more shots, in quick succession, seemingly +not far outside the Old House. Jackman and Royall ran for the stairs, +and Mary and Logan after them. + +Through that great chill hodgepodge old house, past Lady MacAskival’s +room, through an interior courtyard that had been roofed over, into +the enormous Victorian block they ran, stumbling through passages and +down flights of stairs, until at last the four of them burst into a big +Victorian entrance-hall. About the closed door were clustered Tompkins +and Ferd and Anderson and a fourth man whom Logan took to be Niven. +They all had rifles at the ready, but no one had ventured to open the +door. Jackman dashed among them and flung back the bolts: “See what +it is, you fools.” None of the four seemed eager to investigate, but +they followed Jackman and Royall a little way into the dark, and Mary +MacAskival and Logan tagged after. A massive knob of the great rock on +which the Old House stood jutted up close by the door, and Logan urged +the girl toward it. + +“If anyone fires from out there,” he whispered to her, “we’ll be so +many sitting ducks.” + +“No one will fire at us,” the girl said; but, obediently, she crouched +behind the rock, peering round in the direction the men were looking. + +There came one more screech of hysterical laughter, and then a figure +came into view, reeling, stumbling, slipping, but still holding a +rifle. Only a few yards from the Old House, the man swung round to +face the darkness from which he had emerged, brought his gun to his +shoulder, and fired three more shots, wildly, toward nothing visible. +There was as much chance of his hitting the moon, with the aim he took, +as of winging any living thing in Carnglass. Then the man dropped his +rifle altogether and came lurching on toward the entrance of the Old +House, falling at last in a heap right at Jackman’s feet, giggling, +moaning, choking. + +“Rab!” cried Jackman. “What the devil, Rab?” It was a very young man, +thick-set and heavy-featured, with a great shock of hair. He was +covered with little cuts, and his clothes were in rags. To judge by his +gasping and gulping, he had run for miles. And he was quite out of his +head. He squirmed at Jackman’s feet, and mumbled obscenities, and then +burst once more into his screaming and terrified laugh. + +“Something has run him like a hare,” Royall said. “The wits are gone +out of the man.” The four servants, hard cases though they looked, +bunched together like so many rabbits. Stooping, Jackman took Rab by +the shoulders and shook him mercilessly. + +“Rab!” Jackman hissed. “Rab! Speak, man, or I’ll give you worse than +you’ve had already.” But Rab only sobbed for breath. “Pick up his +rifle, Mr. Royall,” Jackman said, prodding Rab with his foot. Logan +suspected that he gave the order to Royall for fear that none of the +servants would obey it. Stooping, Royall slipped into the heather, +groped for the gun, found it, and hurried back, glancing over his lean +shoulder. + +“Anderson and Ferd, lift this lump,” Jackman called out, “and drag +him inside.” The whole party retreated through the wide doorway into +the Victorian courtyard, and then back into the formal entrance-hall, +barring the gates behind them; Anderson was left as sentry inside the +great door. “Now you, Niven and Ferd, hold up this thing before me.” +They supported the muttering Rab between them. Jackman slapped Rab’s +bleeding face with his open palm, terribly hard. The young man ceased +to moan; his eyes rolled. “Rab,” said Jackman, slowly and distinctly, +“where the devil is Carruthers?” + +“O, it took him, it took him!” cried Rab, and lapsed into incoherence. + +“I’ll have the heart out of you, Rab, if you don’t speak up. What took +Carruthers?” Jackman slapped him again. + +Rab’s dull eyes widened. “It took Carruthers! Lagg took him, auld, wet +Lagg! Lagg it was!” With that, Rab sank into a kind of fit, and Ferd +and Niven pushed him down upon the floor. + +Dr. Jackman stood rigid. “No,” he said, perhaps to Royall, perhaps +to himself. “No. Not Lagg.” Then he looked round, his face stiff and +white, upon the little ring of men, and upon Logan and Mary MacAskival +beyond them. “Get this creature to bed,” he said to Niven and Ferd. +“Tie him in, if you must. Ignore his ravings. The fellow’s lost his +nerve; Donley must have been after him. Royall, post someone atop the +tower, and tell him to fire at anything that moves. Miss MacAskival, +this is no scene for you. See if your aunt has been disturbed, and then +get to your room. Logan, Tompkins will show you up. Stay in your rooms +until I have you called for breakfast.” Then Jackman went out into the +courtyard again, calling to Anderson. + +Tompkins, carrying a petrol lantern, led the girl and Logan through +the passages toward the Renaissance block. Outside Lady MacAskival’s +room, Mary paused. “I’d best look in here, Hugh,” she said, “so I tell +you good-night now.” Tompkins moved discreetly a few feet further down +the passage, but Logan only pressed the girl’s hand. She contrived to +smile at him. “Do you recollect that last stanza I sang?” she asked: + + “‘It’s up yon hethery mountain, + And down yon scroggy glen, + We daur na gang a milking, + For Charlie and his men.’ + +Take care this night, Hugh.” Then she was gone into the bedroom hung +with Spanish leather. + +Tompkins led him to a decent smallish chamber on the floor above Lady +MacAskival’s room, wished Logan a civil good-night, and slid away. +There was no key in the lock upon the door, and no bolt. To shove +furniture against the door, Logan felt, might seem unduly suspicious +to Dr. Jackman; but he did it, all the same, jamming a chair-back +under the doorknob, and reinforcing it by a small chest. He looked out +his two windows; they were high and small, and almost impossible for +anyone to reach even with very long ladders, for the rock fell sheer +away below this portion of the Old House. The bed, if rather damp, was +tolerable. He slid his pistol Meg under the pillow, and was dozing off +in short order, with only the wind at the panes to break the stillness, +and the distant growl of the combers. Logan was too tired to think of +Rab, or Lagg, or Jackman, or Royall, or even of the green-eyed girl--to +whom, in a fit of sympathy at the dinner-table, he had promised that +she need fear neither ghost nor bogle while he was near. It was an +unsecured pledge of questionable validity to an insecure girl of +questionable antecedents. + + + + +9 + + +Much later--it must have been past three in the morning--Logan was +waked from his troubled sleep by a curious sound. His nerves on +edge, he sat up in bed, scarcely knowing where he was, and befuddled +by finding himself tangled in an old-fangled nightshirt, until he +remembered that Tompkins had laid out for him this antique garment. +The only source of light in the room was the extinguished candle, of +course; and Logan reached for the candlestick, but thought better of +it, and listened. + +The noise was the sound of slow sliding. Blinking, he looked toward the +door. So far as he could see anything at all, it seemed to him that +the door was very slightly ajar. And then he knew the source of the +sliding-sound: someone must have dislodged slightly the chair he had +used as barrier, must have got a hand round the edge of the door, and +must be quietly shoving chair and reinforcing chest inward, so that +whoever was outside might squeeze within. + +Logan snatched his pistol from under the pillow. It wouldn’t do to use +the gun except in the last extremity, though. He slid silently out of +bed to the floor, and rolled under the bedstead. If someone meant to +cut his throat, there in the blackness, whoever it was would stab an +empty bed. + +That sliding-noise had ceased now; what had wanted to enter presumably +had glided in. To Logan, taut on the floor under the bed, came the +thought of Old Askival, who was supposed to walk the narrow passages +of the Old House, and had driven the wastrel Donald to the New House. +Whatever had entered surely made no noise at all: a thrill ran through +Logan’s body. Holding his breath and straining his sight, after +what seemed like a quarter of an hour--really some five seconds, +probably--he made out the dimmest of dim shapes bending over the bed, +its legs right before Logan’s nose. Gripping the pistol in his left +hand, Logan seized an ankle of the intruder and gave a mighty tug. + +A stifled cry, and the thing was on the floor beside him, and Logan +flung himself upon it in a tangle of arms and legs, thrusting the +pistol against the thing’s head. The shape made very little resistance. +Shape? The body under Logan was not a man’s shape. And most certainly +it was not Lady MacAskival or old Agnes. “You’ve hurt my head,” the +shape murmured, resentful and panting. In the faintest of whispers-- +“Really! Are men always so violent when they’re waked in the middle of +the night?” + +It had been a near thing; that little pistol, thrust against the girl’s +temple, might have gone off. “Oh!” said Logan, shocked and embarrassed. +“Did I cut you?” He ran his hand through the mass of her hair, +searching for a wound. + +“I think not,” the girl said, brushing aside his hand. “You were good +enough merely to stun me. Now do you mind sitting somewhere else than +on me? I’m rather out of breath. Sit on the bed. How queer you look in +that nightgown! It must have been one of Sir Alastair’s, who was twice +your size; I wonder it hangs together still. And keep your voice low, +for Dr. Jackman walks the passages at all hours, like a wraith, and +he _would_ put an end to Hugh Logan if he found me with you. I’m ever +so sorry to put you in danger--or more danger--and to wake you from +a sound sleep, and to invade your bedroom; but you and I must talk +tonight. There, that’s much better! You do look silly, perched in that +old nightgown on that old bed, but it can’t be helped. Oh, you have a +little gun? That’s clever of you. I wish I had one of my own. I have +keys--although Dr. Jackman doesn’t know it--to nearly every room in +the house except the gunroom, and the cellars where they keep those +explosives: Dr. Jackman put new locks on those. Do you mind if I sit on +the other end of the bed? The floor’s rather hard. Thank you: now we +can make matters clear.” + +The minx--Logan’s eyes, adjusted to the dark, could make her out +vaguely--was fully dressed, except that she was barefoot, as usual. +Either she was an idiot, which he doubted, or else she was the bravest +woman he ever had come upon. “Miss MacAskival,” he said, “what is +outside this house? What drove Rab out of his mind? It may be, I +suppose, that Donley was forced back to land, after he took my boat; +but he was a tired man when I saw him last, and I can’t imagine him +knocking Carruthers on the head and chasing Rab right up to the door.” + +“Now that you have knocked _me_ on the head,” said Mary MacAskival, +“and have sat on me, you may as well commence calling me Mary, Hugh +Logan. We’ve not time, just now, to talk of what may be outside; for +I must tell you of what’s within. You have no faith in me, have you? +You’ve been talking with Dr. Jackman. What did he tell you of me?” + +He had no faith in anyone in the Old House, Logan thought; indeed, he +had begun to doubt his own sanity. But he would be blunt with this +girl, and see if she could make a case for herself. “He told me, Mary +MacAskival,” Logan said, “that you were eccentric.” + +There in the dark, the girl laughed softly; she was a cool one. +“Why, that’s true enough, Hugh Logan: all the MacAskivals have their +oddities. I fancy that old Mr. Duncan MacAskival, who sent you to me, +has his peculiarities.” + +“That he has. But he’s no girl of fifteen.” + +“Fifteen?” She sounded startled. “Whatever do you mean?” + +“You are fifteen, aren’t you?” + +“Fifteen!” She stifled her merriment. “I’m past twenty, Hugh Logan, +though it’s little I am. Whatever possessed Dr. Jackman to tell you +such a thing?” Her voice rang true. + +“And he said you were too fond of men.” + +“Fond of men? I’m not fond of Dr. Jackman, I can tell you. I never +see any men to be fond of, here in Carnglass, Dr. Jackman’s crew +are half afraid of me--particularly Niven the tinker, who knows I +am a witch--and I’m thoroughly afraid of them, although I never let +them guess it. With whom am I supposed to be infatuated?” A tone of +suppressed anger had come into her voice. + +“When you were thirteen, Jackman said, you--why, you loved a gardener +here in Carnglass.” + +At first Logan thought she had begun to sob; but then he realized she +was choking in an endeavor to keep from breaking into imprudent shrieks +of laughter. “Malcolm Mor MacAskival,” she managed, at last. “Malcolm +Mor! Of course I loved him. I do still. He carried messages for me and +contrived to get them posted in Loch Boisdale, and so they discharged +him. And he worships the ground I tread, because I am The MacAskival. +He has a great white beard, and is upward of seventy. Are you jealous +of him?” + +It was impossible not to believe her: Jackman was plausible, but Mary +MacAskival was all candor. “What a consummate liar Jackman is!” Logan +played with Donley’s little gun. + +“To be sure he is; didn’t I tell you so, Hugh? He lives by lies. But +into nearly every lie he works a tiny grain of truth, for the sake +of appearances. Well, then: what other mischief have I been working, +according to your friend Dr. Jackman?” + +“He implied, Mary MacAskival, that you suffer from delusions of +grandeur. He said you must have told me--by ‘me’ he means our +fictitious bank-clerk, of course--that you were to inherit Carnglass +and all the rest from your aunt, while in truth you are a pauper.” + +“Would it matter to you if I were a pauper?” She was serious now; he +thought her firm chin went up. + +“Not in the least.” + +“Well, then, as a matter of fact, Hugh Logan, I have more money than +has Lady MacAskival. She never has loved me, but she has no one else +who signifies; and so, more than five years ago, she gifted Carnglass +to me, and more than half her securities. She told me that would +baffle the Exchequer; for in this country, you know, one can escape +death-duties by giving away one’s property, so long as one does it +five years before one’s death. Five years ago my aunt still had her +wits about her--enough to make a lawful will, at any rate; and she put +Carnglass and the rest into trust for me; and six months from now, when +I am twenty-one, I can do what I like with my own.” + +This revelation reminded Logan of his proper business in Carnglass, +which the troubles of the past few days had almost driven out of his +head. “Then Lady MacAskival couldn’t sell Carnglass to my principal +even if she chose? It’s yours? And will you sell?” + +“Hugh Logan! Here we sit whispering, with a gang of murderers and +conspirators in the house, and The MacAskival honoring you with a +call at four in the morning in your bedchamber, and you talk of +title-deeds! You _are_ a man of law. But no, I wouldn’t sell: Carnglass +is my world. Yet Duncan MacAskival being an old man, and a kinsman, +and having his heart set on the matter, I might arrange for him a +life-tenure of the Old House. And I, and any husband I might choose to +have, could live at the New House. When I wrote Duncan MacAskival that +last letter--the note that brought you here, Hugh--I made up my mind +that I would not bring him here upon a wild-goose chase altogether. If +a lease of the Old House will satisfy him, he shall have it. But Dr. +Jackman will be a nasty tenant for us to evict, Hugh Logan.” + +And then, in part volunteering the story and in part prompted by +Logan’s questions, the girl gave him her account of Dr. Edmund +Jackman. Three years before, when Mary still had been at school, +old Lady MacAskival had gone to London for a month, in winter. For +half a century, Lady MacAskival had been very odd; and now whatever +rationality remained to her was giving way. On her infrequent London +visits, she had tended more and more to surround herself with peculiar +company: Indian pseudo-mystics, and fortune-tellers with pretensions to +decent manners, and mediums of various sorts. Lady MacAskival detested +anything resembling orthodox religion, but rejoiced in any oddity which +flirted with faces that glowered up from the abyss; and she believed, +or half believed. She was ignorant, superstitious, vain, and rich--and +she had a bad conscience. Moreover, she was extremely lonely. To her, +in time, was presented a Dr. Edmund Jackman, “a scholar, my dear, and +a progressive politician, and a diplomat, and a man who knows _all_ +about the occult. He has just come back from a trip to Roumania.” Dr. +Edmund Jackman spent a great deal of time in Lady MacAskival’s London +drawing-room, that winter three years gone. In the spring, he was +invited to Carnglass, and came for a visit of two months. And then +there was another visit, lengthier; and another. + +By the end of the year of lengthy visits, Edmund Jackman was wholly +master of Lady MacAskival’s mind, or what remained of it; and master, +too, of her money, and of Carnglass. Dr. Jackman was useful in many +ways. He kept her avaricious London kinsfolk from troubling her. He +took her affairs out of the hands of her ineffectual solicitors, and +gave them his personal attention. Gradually he dismissed her feckless +Island servants, even the farmhands, and reduced household costs, and +brought in some hard-featured, but doubtless dependable, men from +London and Glasgow, until only old Agnes remained of the former staff. +He spent much of her income, too, on “schemes for political education.” + +This Mary MacAskival had learnt from the mumbling lips of her old aunt, +in that darkened room hung with Spanish leather, listening to the +ramblings of that stricken brain, convinced sometimes that she was near +to madness herself. This she whispered to Hugh Logan, curled at the +other end of the bed. And she had learnt other things from Dr. Jackman +himself, and from Royall, and from scraps of servants’ conversation +overheard in the passages. + +Her solitary years with Lady MacAskival had given the girl an insight +into the old woman’s mind and soul, Logan perceived, so complete +that she could speak almost for, rather than of, her dying aunt. She +understood, and nearly shared, the terrors of that room hung with +Spanish leather. And she knew what talents gave Jackman his power over +the old woman. + +More than all his other services, what made Dr. Jackman indispensable +to Lady MacAskival was this: he kept Sir Alastair away from the door +of her room. Lady MacAskival always had suspected that Alastair was +lurking outside that door, even though she had buried him under the +great stone in St. Merin’s Chapel so many years ago. Every day she +sent the footman with a message for Alastair to be placed in the tomb +at St. Merin’s Chapel, imploring Alastair to forgive her, and to stay +up there at the top of Carnglass where he belonged. Yet twice she had +glimpsed Alastair, unrelenting, in the narrow passages. He _would_ come +back, and gobble at her bedroom door on windy nights, and she lay in +dread that one night he might cross the threshold. + +Dr. Jackman had saved her from that: he had bound Sir Alastair by a +mystical chain, he told Lady MacAskival, and so long as she possessed +the loyalty of Dr. Jackman, no tall stern old man, who ought to be +in his tomb, would cross the threshold. Of course it was essential +to retain the wholehearted loyalty of Dr. Jackman, and that could +be secured by agreeing with him in all things. Once or twice, when +she had demurred from some plan of his, Dr. Jackman had come to her +bedside, with Mr. Royall beside him, and had described in awful detail +what would be the consequences if Sir Alastair made his way in. She +had fallen into a fit, and old Agnes had been too terrified to speak. +At all costs, Dr. Edmund Jackman must be kept in a good humor; and +sometimes the costs ran very high. It was a great pity that willful +girl Mary did not take to Dr. Jackman. + +For months now, Dr. Jackman and Mr. Royall had lived at the Old House +all the time, except for brief cruises about the islands. Dr. Jackman +demonstrated to Lady MacAskival his control over the risen dead by +certain seances in her room. Tables rose, and chairs fell over, and +horrid white shapes loomed up--but never, Dr. Jackman promised, the +shape of Alastair. And presently Dr. Jackman revealed to her that he +always had been in Carnglass; and had been there infinitely long before +she, as Miss Ann Robertson, had been married to Colonel Sir Alastair +MacAskival. For Dr. Jackman was not simply human. He was a part of +Carnglass, and its master from time out of mind. He had been there +before the Viking rovers came. He was the Firgower, the Goat-Man. +And he saw all things, past, present, and future, through his Third +Eye, which quivered in the middle of his forehead. By watching Lady +MacAskival with his Third Eye, he could relieve her of all pain, and +put her to sleep at will. + +Yet it did not seem quite right that Dr. Jackman should marry her +niece. He had told Lady MacAskival many times that he must do so; that +the thing was ordered by the Presences under the rocks of Carnglass; +that thus Carnglass would be his in the eyes of the puny law of men, +as well as by the decree of nature. Still, it did not seem right. Mary +belonged to the living, not to be a being beyond good and evil. Lady +MacAskival dared not deny Dr. Jackman, however; she said only, in great +fear and pain, “Then you must ask Mary herself.” + +Dr. Jackman did not neglect Miss Mary MacAskival. Upon her he bestowed +much valuable time, endeavoring to instruct her in progressive social +views and in a proper understanding of occult lore. He had compelled +her to come to him in his study at least an hour a day, to listen to +his peculiar talk. Almost always he had been quite civil; but once or +twice he had threatened her, and then he had been ghastly. He talked +politics and necromancy to her, a queer mixture. The one, she thought, +was as mad as the other, or perhaps the politics was a little the +madder. + +“If I had known the least little bit about politics and economics and +all that,” she said to Hugh, “Dr. Jackman would have converted me. +But I was utterly ignorant, so he could make no impression. I was +altogether too stupid.” The politics, so far as Logan could determine +from Mary’s imperfect exposition, were Marxist, or a variant thereof. +“He has been so eager to have me serve the Party,” she said. “But the +Party, so far as I could make out, meant to destroy a great many +people to bring about peace everywhere, and meant to make everybody +precisely alike so everyone could be perfectly happy, forever and ever. +That’s nonsense. You’re a solicitor--or is it a barrister, Hugh?--and +you know. I don’t at all want to be like Dr. Jackman, or like Niven the +tinker; and I don’t want them to be like me. So after a time I simply +stared at Dr. Jackman, and said ‘Indeed?’ now and then, and he grew +discouraged. My tactics worked like a bomb.” + +“Like a bomb?” asked Hugh Logan, startled. + +“Oh, you know--that’s one of the things we said at school, ‘like a +bomb.’ Everything good or successful is like a bomb. You know, don’t +you?” Sometimes this astounding girl seemed old as the hills, and at +other times younger than the fifteen years Jackman had assigned to her. +She was a hoyden of sorts, but quite innocent. “Don’t you ever say +‘like a bomb,’ Hugh? But then, I suppose you never attended a girls’ +school.” + +So Jackman had abandoned his endeavor to enlist Miss MacAskival in +The Cause. Yet he had persisted in his instruction in the occult. +“He really believes in it all, Hugh. Mr. Royall doesn’t believe, or +believes only a little; but Dr. Jackman is stranger than my old aunt. +He was shot in the head in Spain--oh, did he tell you that?--and I +think that he has been more clever and more dangerous in various ways +since he came from the hospital; but also he sees things that no one +else sees, and hears sounds that no one else hears. And he has become +a part of Carnglass. I mean that. He has read everything that may be +read concerning Carnglass; and all the old tales have got into his +brain the way romances got into Don Quixote’s head: but so evilly, +Hugh. He did not say he was the Firgower simply to frighten my aunt; +he believes it. He frightens even Mr. Royall. And then, of a sudden, +he will drop that weird talk and begin discussing politics. Or he may +become quite sensible, and make plans to scout round the islands, and +to keep in touch with people on the mainland, and to send messages to +the Continent, and to set off gelignite when he’s ready.” + +“Explosives?” + +“Oh, yes, he has a crypt full of it; but I’ll tell you of that +presently. He didn’t mean me to hear about the explosives, but there +are places in my Old House where I can eavesdrop, if I must.” She +seemed to take a schoolgirl satisfaction in that art. + +Royall, to judge by Mary MacAskival’s description, was what someone +once called “the humanitarian with the guillotine.” Wholly devoted +to Jackman, he was forever talking of the sufferings of the working +classes. But he spoke of the men who served him and Jackman, and +sometimes of people in general, as “that scum.” Systematic and +humorless, once upon a time he had been a successful civil servant. +Then, however, political fanaticism had swallowed him, and there +remained of the man only an emaciated body and a hatred of life, which +he disguised from himself as hatred of the “expropriating classes.” +Mary MacAskival thought that Royall would have snuffed out her life, +if it had served his interest--or the Party’s interest--with no more +scruple than as if she had been a mouse. + +Edmund Jackman was more subtle and interesting. Possibly, Logan thought +as he listened to the girl, Jackman once had known the good and had +deliberately chosen the evil--and ever after had been haunted by that +memory. “Evil, be thou my good.” Fearless and very clever, somewhere +early in life he must have taken the sinister track. And never had he +contrived to turn back. + +“When the horror is upon Dr. Jackman,” Mary was whispering, “I think I +would faint, only that he reminds me of Rumpelstiltskin in the fairy +tale, and that makes me laugh inside, even though the rest of me is +shaking.” The horror came upon him once or twice nearly every day, and +then he looked like a damned soul. “I think he is remembering things +he has done. Once, when he meant to break my will, he hinted at what +he had to do in Spain. I think he killed patients in hospitals with +doses of poison, so that they would not tell tales. Perhaps, in the +beginning, the people who gave him his orders saw the streak of good +in him, and so they hardened him by ordering him to do all the worst +things that could be done.” The girl shivered. + +After the civil war in Spain, it seemed, Jackman had vanished into +eastern Europe; and had reappeared in England for a time during the +second World War; and next had turned up in Roumania. There, somehow, +he had fallen into disfavor with the people who gave him his orders. +Possibly he had gone too far in his measures, having come to love +terror for its own sake. Or perhaps he had been chosen as a scapegoat, +during a period when there were official pretences of moderation. In +any event, he had fled out of Roumania, four years ago, returning to +London; and then he had come to Carnglass. Royall, it seemed, had been +with Jackman in Roumania, and the two of them had done things there of +which they preferred not to speak even to each other. “Royall is like a +ghost: I mean that he has no conscience left. But Jackman, I think, has +memories of the difference between wrong and right, and so the horror +comes upon him.” + +Suddenly the girl leaned closer to Logan, who had been about to speak, +and put her little hand upon his mouth. “Hush!”--this scarcely more +than a hiss. Her ears, attuned to the creaks and echoes of the place, +had detected something his had not. Yes: now there were stealthy +footfalls in the passage. Someone moved outside the door of the room; +seemed to hesitate there; passed on. The girl’s fingers were gripping +Logan’s shoulder, and his hand shook as he held his pistol ready. But +whatever had been outside was gone elsewhere in the labyrinth of the +Old House. + +How ever had Mary MacAskival endured, in her solitude, the dread strain +of this perilous ordeal, month on month? “I say,” she asked him, +abruptly, as if she had read his mind, “do you think I’m mad myself?” +He squeezed her little hand for answer. “Sometimes I wonder if I am,” +she went on, “for it seems like one unending nightmare: until you came, +that is.” + +Once Jackman had said to her, “Miss MacAskival, I felicitate you on +your strength of mind.” Considering what the man was, he had been +almost gentle with her; probably his admiration was genuine. He +tolerated no rudeness toward her from any of his rough men. + +“I don’t think he is interested in women as most men are,” Mary +MacAskival went on. Did she blush in the darkness? “He is in love +with power and terror. He wants me only because with me he could have +Carnglass a while longer, and because I have money. And, I suppose, +because he enjoys crushing other people’s minds. He has tried to crush +mine. Had he not been so busy with other things, I believe he would +have defeated me long ago.” + +So long as her aunt continued to live, Jackman had no urgent motive to +compel the girl to marry him: his ascendancy over Lady MacAskival gave +him Carnglass and enough money. But as Lady MacAskival sank, now rarely +rising from her bed, the day grew near when Jackman must marry the +girl, or else run the danger of exposure and ruin. + +“Once I was rash,” Mary said. “I told him and Royall that I had +tolerated them only because they held my aunt’s life as security. I +said that when she was gone, I’d tell everything I knew to the police. + +“Dr. Jackman smiled a horrid smile. ‘Who would believe a mad girl?’ +was what he said. And then he told me that if he should fail to +persuade me to remain loyal to him, he and Royall might do things to +me--‘painful measures, Miss MacAskival, painful for all of us’--that +would make me into a different person, so that I could never be the +same again. There were ‘special mental disciplines,’ he told me, and +‘certain shock treatments.’ It would be ever so much pleasanter if I +simply did as he told me to. And he could be sure that I would do as he +wished if I were to marry him. That was once when the horror came upon +him.” + +Here, at last, the girl burst into suppressed sobs. Logan’s arm went +round her shoulders. “Sometimes I have thought,” she mumbled, “that I +ought to give way. So much easier! But I suppose I was too proud.” + +The fierce old blood of the chieftains of MacAskival, Logan thought, +was strong in her; she was a sport in more ways than one. It would be +a pleasure for him, if ever he got the chance--which, at the moment, +seemed slim--to settle accounts on her behalf with Edmund Jackman. + +Why, until she wrote to Duncan MacAskival, had she made no attempt +to expose Jackman, or to escape? Because it was only gradually she +had come to understand what Jackman and Royall were after; and she +had known, too, that her aunt’s life was in their hands, and that +they would not hesitate to snuff it out if they were pushed. From the +moment Jackman established himself in the Old House, it had become +increasingly difficult to send any message out of the island; a +fortnight ago, it had become virtually impossible; and since Donley’s +flight, she had not been permitted even to leave the house. + +And there was another reason: that room in the cellars full of +explosives. She thought that Jackman was eager to use them, if there +were any chance for it, to destroy certain mysterious things that the +government was building in the Outer Isles; but Royall was trying to +restrain him. “Dr. Jackman,” she had overheard him say once, “you know +what exceeding instructions has brought us already. Until word comes +from Bruhl....” Royall was willing, she suspected, to rest content with +gathering what information they could about those mysterious projects, +and transmitting it to someone in London. But in Jackman there was +some terrible compulsion to blow everything apart. “If he could, I do +believe, he would explode all the world into little bits.” + +So there was this: if Jackman were brought to bay, and had the +opportunity, very probably he would set off the gelignite in the crypt. +The Old House would go, and everyone in it; and for Mary MacAskival, +the Old House and Carnglass were the center of the universe. “I know +nothing about politics,” she told Logan, rather apologetically. “I +suppose Jackman and Royall are traitors, and might do terrible harm +to the country. But Carnglass is my country. I think of the Old House +first.” Jackman would destroy himself and everyone in the Old House, +almost certainly, if he despaired. “What was it the old Greek said: +‘When I am dead, let earth be mixed with fire’? I learnt that at +school. Well, that is how Dr. Jackman thinks.” + +She had lived with the terror, hoping vaguely that Jackman’s plans +might alter and he and his men go away; that the authorities in London +or Glasgow might discover the scheme and descend before Jackman could +act. It was only as her aunt had sunk toward her end that the girl had +been roused to some plan of action, what with her own imminent danger. +And so she had got off the note to Duncan MacAskival, a schoolgirl’s +design; yet it had succeeded so far as to bring Logan to her. “Until +you came, I had no one at all to talk with.” Her sobbing broke out +again. + +Jackman and Royall, she was convinced, had no notion of what she had +done or of Logan’s real identity. Once Logan had told her of his +encounters with Dowie and Gare, she said that Duncan MacAskival’s +cablegrams could not have reached Carnglass. The storms, and the +fortunate burning of the boats, had prevented that. There was a +wireless in the Old House, and Jackman sometimes used it, cautiously, +in sending messages in code to people on the mainland; but some ten +days before Lagg and Donley disappeared, part of the wireless set had +slipped out of sight. “They thought Lagg, who was acting strangely, +must have stolen it,” she said. “He didn’t. I did.” This girl was a +paragon. “I do believe that if they knew who you are,” she went on, +“they would make away with you, just as they did with Mr. Lagg”--for +Logan had told her, hurriedly, what Donley had said of Lagg’s end. + +In a very little while, Logan realized of a sudden, it would be dawn; +and Mary MacAskival must be gone from his room before then. “Mary,” he +said, “what is this about Lagg? Could he be alive? Could that fellow +Rab really have seen him? Who is outside this house? Is it Donley, or +is it only these fellows’ imagination?” + +She hesitated. “I do not know,” she said. Was she concealing something? +“Perhaps I ought to--but there isn’t time now. Listen: someone’s +stirring already, somewhere below. There’s so much more to tell you, +but it must wait. Jackman will keep us apart if he can, but perhaps +he’ll be out with the men today, hunting for Donley. Now I must run.” +There were, indeed, the first faint flushes of the Hebridean spring +dawn visible through the windows. She leaned toward Logan. “You may +kiss my cheek, if you like, for being a brave man.” Logan did that, +but he said, “You seemed to be friendlier yesterday.” She sprang up, +averting her face, and went to the door, and pressed an ear against +it; then she opened it a crack, and peered out; then waved a little +hand, and slipped through, and was gone. With this sudden vanishing, +Logan almost doubted that the strange little creature ever had crouched +sobbing beside him. + + * * * * * + +Logan lay awake on his bed after that, as the sun came up, full of +dreads--more, perhaps, for the girl than for himself, but sufficiently +concerned for Number One. About seven, there was a rap at his door, and +Tompkins, that pillar of varnished iniquity, brought him morning tea. +Logan would not have been surprised to be knifed as he took the tray, +but Tompkins said only, “Foggy again today, sir,” and closed the door +behind him. Leaving the tea untasted, Logan shaved with the hot water +Tompkins had brought, hurriedly dressed, and found his way downstairs +to the book-lined corridor, where for a few minutes he idled about, +with a feeling of complete helplessness. Then Royall appeared from +somewhere, glancing at him suspiciously; but Royall was civil enough, +in his deathly way, and told him that he could breakfast in the study +in the tower. + +He breakfasted alone. Of Mary, there was no sign; and Tompkins told +him that “Dr. Jackman and Mr. Royall and some of the men have gone +out, sir, hunting that Donley person.” The breakfast was meagre, +porridge and a scrambled egg of sorts--powdered egg, Logan thought. In +a besieged house, supplies soon ran low. Outside the small windows, +the mist clung to the gray stone. He would have liked to pry into the +drawers of desk and table, but Tompkins or someone else might enter at +any moment. His pistol was invisible under his heavy tweed jacket; that +was something. How would it all end? He was a pawn in this deep game, +and presently some one would sweep him off the board, unless Donley had +got to the mainland and delivered his note to the police. And even if a +police-launch should put in at Askival harbor, could that devil Jackman +be prevented from sending everyone in the house up in smoke? To ponder +these things, in a deceptive calm, really was the strangest part of the +nightmare into which he had got himself. + +About half-past eight, Mary MacAskival ran into the study--shod, for a +change, and her face glowing with excitement. The nerves that girl must +have! Logan put down his pipe, not knowing whether he was expected to +shake hands or to kiss her; but she gave him time for neither. “Hugh,” +she said, “Hugh Logan, I saw them from my window! Jackman and Royall +and the others: they’re bringing something up from the shore, dragging +it. Come down with me, and we’ll go out to meet them.” + +Through that immense house they ran, out into the enclosed courtyard +of the Victorian block. By the big door, or rather gate, three of the +men were standing: Tompkins, and Anderson the footman (who looked +unpleasantly like his Gallowgate brother), and a dark grinning man, +supple and compact, who must be Ferd Caggia, the cook. A rifle lay at +an angle against the wall by the door, back of Anderson. Caggia had +just passed an odd green bottle--was it the old rum?--to Anderson, +who took a swig from it. The three men stared at Logan and the girl, +Anderson leering as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. + +Mary MacAskival marched straight up to the door, Logan by her side, +she quite ignoring the men until she stood right before Anderson, who +barred the way. Yes, it was rum Anderson smelt of. “Open the door,” she +said, calmly. “Mr. Logan and I are going out to meet Dr. Jackman.” + +“What’ll ye gie me if I do?” Anderson’s words came thickly; the man was +drunk. Anderson winked at Tompkins and Ferd for approval. + +“Be good enough to open it.” Mary MacAskival’s green eyes glittered. + +“Not for a young hizzie, not me.” Anderson laughed harshly, leaning +against the door. Mary MacAskival reached past him and pulled at the +bolt; it slid back. + +Then Anderson took her round the waist, staring defiantly at Logan. +“Ye’ll gie me something, whether I let ye oot or no, ma fine leddie.” +With one raw fist, he pulled at the girl’s jacket. Logan took a step +forward and gave Anderson the back of his hand. + +Caught off balance, Anderson crashed against the door. His big head +jerked back, his arm flew away from the girl, and he fell. + +The next second, Anderson was up from the flagstones, and everything +happened at once. “Davie, you know what Dr....” Tompkins began, in +mild remonstrance. Ferd Caggia glided to one side, still grinning, as +if he were a spectator at a match for his especial amusement. And tall +Davie Anderson, rising, had grasped the rifle; already its muzzle was +swinging upward, toward Logan, and there was killing in Anderson’s +tipsy eyes. + +Logan’s reaction was instinctive and the product of his army years, not +prudential. Very swiftly, he sent his hand into his armpit and flashed +out the little pistol. “Anderson,” he said, distinctly, “don’t move. +Don’t move at all.” The girl stood fixed by the unbolted door, her eyes +wide, very pale. + +Anderson’s mouth opened; the rifle in his grip sank toward the ground. +Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw Caggia glide smoothly toward +his back, and saw Caggia’s hands slip down toward something protruding +just above his belt; but still Caggia smiled. “Caggia,” said Logan, +“bide where you are, man.” Tompkins quivered. + +Then, behind Anderson, the big door opened, and Dr. Jackman stepped +softly in, his eyes sweeping across the little tableau. Without +hesitation, Jackman snatched the rifle from Anderson’s hands and dealt +the footman a terrible blow in the jaw with the butt of it. The man +fell, stunned, and a tooth flew out of his mouth as he struck the +flagstones. Behind Jackman, Royall entered; and after him, two more +men, dragging something, and staring at the tableau as they came. + +Jackman kicked Anderson in the face. “I told you, you ape, to mind +your manners. Caggia, get this fellow to his quarters. Powert, relieve +Anderson on duty at the door”--this to one of the men behind him. “Mr. +Logan, I was not aware that junior bank-clerks carried revolvers on +their social calls.” Jackman’s words were smooth, but his face was +twisted cruelly. Rumpelstiltskin, Logan thought. “Mr. Logan,” Jackman +went on, even more suavely, “now that I have disposed of Anderson, you +have no more need for that pistol. Be good enough to give it to me.” +Jackman held out his hand. + +Royall was beside Jackman now, carrying a rifle; and Caggia was out of +Logan’s line of vision, probably right at his unprotected back; and the +girl, surrounded by men, was exposed to any shooting; and the odds were +too great. Logan extended his palm, with the little pistol lying upon +it, toward Jackman. + +Then Royall drew in his breath. “Dr. Jackman,” he said, hoarsely, “see +what gun that is!” + +Plucking the pistol deftly out of Logan’s hand, Jackman examined it. +“Quite right, Royall,” he observed. “It’s Donley’s gun Meg, isn’t it? +Mr. Logan, my apologies: I was quite deceived by you--an excellent +performance on your part. You are a young man of talents. After you +took the gun from Donley, did you shoot him or drown him?” + +Only then did Logan see what the men had dragged into the courtyard. +It was the battered dead body of Donley, still streaming with water. +“Don’t look, my dear,” said Jackman to Mary, considerately. “A bit of +flotsam, washed up near the pier.” + + + + +10 + + +Two more men had come into the courtyard, and stood staring. “Simmons,” +said Dr. Jackman to one of them, “help Niven to get this body into the +cellars, for the time being. Miss MacAskival, be so good as to go to +your rooms and remain there until I send word. Well, Rab! Up and about? +I take it that Donley here wasn’t on your heels last night? No, of +course not. We haven’t yet found your friend Carruthers, but I trust +that we will. Caggia, _do_ get Anderson to his bed, for he’s sprinkling +blood all over the flags, and there’s a lady present.” + +The sight of blood seemed to put Edmund Jackman into excellent form. +Shock-headed Rab gazed at him vacantly, as if still dazed by his last +evening’s encounter with shadowy pursuers. “Well,” Jackman went on +cheerfully, “poor Till--he’s lost the sight of one eye forever, I’m +sure--is quits with Seamus Donley now. Go up and tell him the news, +Tompkins.” + +Mary, in the midst of this hard crew, was looking at Logan with dismay +in her eyes. “Hugh,” she said, “Hugh ...” and stretched out a hand +toward him. Jackman shot a malign glance at her. + +“You’d best go, Mary,” Logan told her, with what assurance he could +summon up. She turned and fled into the Old House. + +Logan could conjecture the fate of Donley. Tired and wounded, the old +terrorist must have been flung on the skerries by that cruel sea; the +boat would have broken up; and his body, beaten against the rocks, +had washed round to the harbor at the other end of Carnglass. In this +grim moment, Logan had little time to pity Donley. It could not have +been Donley, then, returned, who hunted Rab and Carruthers through the +night. Rab might have fired only at imaginary stalkers, in this eerie +island. But then what had become of Carruthers? Lagg had taken him, Rab +had screamed in his hysteria last night. Was it possible that, after +all, Lagg had not been killed? But if he had not, how could he have +existed alone and invisible these several days; and how could a sly fat +Galloway factor have made away with one seasoned ruffian and driven +another out of his wits? + +Except for Powert, standing sentry at the gate, Logan now was left +alone in the courtyard with Jackman and Royall. “Well, Mr. Logan,” +Jackman was saying to him, “there are few things in this vale of tears +more interesting than an accomplished adversary. I prize you.” He was +playing with that little pistol Meg. “Royall, we’ll take Mr. Logan +up to my study, and there he’ll supply us with valuable information, +I’m sure. He should be able to tell us, for instance, who disposed of +Carruthers. He has done us one service already, in evening our score +with the late lamented Seamus Donley; now we’ll discover just who sent +Mr. Logan to us, and why.” + +It might be folly to go on pretending he was an Edinburgh bank-clerk, +Logan thought: Meg had given him away. Under the circumstances, and +considering the habits of Jackman’s gang, naturally Dr. Jackman assumed +that Logan had disposed of Donley. But what new role could Logan play? +To have lapsed into his American speech would have suggested to the +quick mind of Jackman that this young fellow had been sent to manage +the purchase of Carnglass. And, having learnt too much about Jackman +and Company, Logan then would be a candidate for extinction. + +He dared not pretend to be an Englishman, for his mastery of English +accents was not up to it, and Jackman would have detected him at once. +Their French, too, might be better than his own. There seemed to be +nothing for it but to keep speaking in a genteel Scots, though he +might expand his vocabulary beyond the usual range of a fictitious +junior clerk. “Well, Dr. Jackman,” Logan said--he made the word almost +“weel”--“I confess I do find myself in a predicament.” + +“Really,” said Jackman, “really now, my dear fellow, you needn’t +continue to talk as a Lothians counter-jumper would. You didn’t ring +quite true in that role, but yours was a valiant try. You’re a cut or +two above that sort of thing, eh? I doubt whether you’re a Scot at all. +An Englishman, possibly? Or even a German? A university man, probably. +Just walk on the other side of our Mr. Logan, if you will be so good, +Royall. We shall have Mr. Logan resident in Carnglass for some time +now: permanently, perhaps, depending on his degree of co-operation with +us. Among the many things about you which puzzle me, Logan, is how you +contrived to become acquainted with Miss Mary MacAskival. We shall have +to interrogate the young lady on that point, eh, Royall--unless Mr. +Logan is so gallant as to save us the trouble? I hadn’t guessed that +Miss MacAskival numbered among her friends any person formidable enough +to do in Seamus Donley, late I.R.A. Well, up to my study, if you don’t +mind. On the stair, Mr. Royall, pray walk directly behind Mr. Logan, +with your gun at the ready. We mustn’t underestimate his talents a +second time.” + +For all the gravity of this situation, Hugh Logan felt more confidence +in himself than he had known since he landed in Carnglass. He had begun +to understand matters, and to struggle against the tide of events; +his ineffectuality of an hour ago had given way to action of a sort. +And time was running out for Jackman. A few more days of silence from +Carnglass, at most, and someone--the police, or a passing ship or +plane--would suspect that things were amiss in the island, and there +would be investigations highly embarrassing to Jackman. They would not +be so embarrassing, however--sobering thought--if Hugh Logan somehow +should have vanished from Carnglass before any official inquiries +might be made. It was some comfort to reflect that Duncan MacAskival, +if no one else, soon would begin to wonder where he was; and there +was the faint possibility that the Glasgow police, desiring him for a +witness in the affair of Mutto’s Wynd, might commence to look for him. +Everything, conceivably, would depend upon how the next few minutes +with Dr. Jackman happened to go. + +In the study, Jackman indicated that, as on the first occasion, Logan +was to sit at the chess-table. “I don’t think you’ll be needed, +Royall,” Jackman said to that cadaverous secretary, “but you might +look in within the hour. We have a very clever guest here: devilish +clever. It’s as well I have Donley’s pistol in _my_ pocket now.” Royall +hesitated, as if to offer some objection; but, at a dark glance from +Jackman, went out. + +Once again Jackman poured sherry for Logan, and set out the Table-Men +of Askival. “Really, Logan, I think you were pulling my leg at our +last game of chess, as you were in so many other matters. I’ll not +accept any handicap in this match. It’s rather pleasant to play during +a casual discussion like ours, don’t you think? We never may have an +opportunity for another match. That depends upon you, of course, +Logan.” Jackman showed every sign of being in good spirits, as if he +enjoyed this contest with an able adversary; but well below his urbane +surface, Logan suspected, a gnawing disquietude was at work in Jackman. +He knew the man much better after Mary’s account of him. + +As for Logan, he made his first move in the match with seeming +indifference, smiling at Jackman. The only thing that could suffice to +save him, Logan felt, was to dismay Jackman by a show of complacency +and mysterious assurance. He had this sole advantage, that Jackman had +not the faintest glimmer as to who Logan really was. “Oh, no, sir,” he +said to Jackman, still with his assumed Scottish burr, “I fancy that +the question of our future encounters, Dr. Jackman, already is settled +by people from beyond Carnglass.” + +Jackman scowled. “I told you you needn’t play at little games with me, +Logan, or whatever your name is. It’s pointless now for you to talk +like a smarmy bank-clerk that never existed. Why not out with it all? +Who are you?” He advanced a rook. + +“That, Dr. Jackman, you’ll learn in the fullness of time. Lest you grow +rash, let me remind you of one thing: you may be sure that I’d not have +come to Carnglass, knowing you and your men were here, without having +taken precautions. There are a dozen people who know precisely where I +am, and why, and who will come looking for me if I don’t return when I +ought.” He let that observation sink in as he meditated his next move. +He wished there were any truth in it; but Jackman could not know its +hollowness. + +“As for that, Logan”--here Jackman castled--“it would be entirely +possible for you to be lost, accidentally, in these wild waters. +No witnesses would swear to your having met with any harm in +quiet old Carnglass. Not one. You might, for instance, have gone +mackerel-fishing in a small boat with Lagg and Donley; and the three +of you might have been caught in a squall--there are mishaps enough +in these waters--and drowned; and two of the bodies might have been +recovered, Donley’s and yours. A death by drowning is quite natural. A +quarter of a mile off the western shore of Carnglass is a ragged reef +that would offer a wholly convincing explanation.” + +Logan extricated a bishop from a tight corner. “But suppose, Dr. +Jackman, that my friends ashore are not the sort to be satisfied by +the formalities of a coroner’s jury, or, indeed, by Scottish courts of +law? Suppose they might hold you privately accountable, and presume you +guilty until proved innocent?” + +Jackman stared at him. “Logan, I put it to you bluntly now. Royall was +sounding you out last night, of course, with his bits from Burns, and +our other signals. You evaded him. Now tell me out and out, for I’ve no +time to waste: are you one of us? If you are, why cannot you say so and +have done with it, and transmit your instructions to me, if you’ve any +to give? Perhaps you’re from London; perhaps from Paris; perhaps from +further East. I’ve been expecting some such inquiry, of course. Why +this cat-and-mouse rubbish, if you are one of us?” + +Jackman’s nerves were wearing thin. To assume the new role of a member +of Jackman’s conspiratorial circle would be much the safest dodge +for him just now, of course--if only Logan knew how to play it. But, +lacking knowledge of the ring, all he could undertake was to cast out +dark hints from time to time. “Why, I’ll tell you merely this, Dr. +Jackman: I am not authorized to make any regular communication to you +until certain events have taken place, and until a certain time has +elapsed. Until then, consider me simply as your casual guest.” He took +a rook of Jackman’s. + +“You _are_ a cool chap, Logan. I needn’t tell you I have ways of +extracting a statement from you. I know all the ways, Logan.” + +“Of course you know them. But suppose I am the sort of person I may be: +if you did me any hurt, it might be awkward for you afterward, eh? I +have a long memory, Jackman.” + +Jackman bit his lip, and lost another pawn. “There are other ways +of getting round you, Logan. Have you ever heard a lady scream? A +full-throated scream, from exquisite agony, I mean. It’s rather +distressing for a gentleman who happens to like the lady in question. +And it is the ladies, the gently-bred, soft-skinned ladies, who scream +loudest, Logan, and talk soonest and most. Imagine a young lady +accustomed all her life to deference, who hadn’t had a hand laid upon +her in anger since she was a naughty small child; and then think of +her, to her surprise and chagrin, abruptly treated to the worst that +the human body can stand. How she would scream, Logan, and babble all +she knew, and beg to be let off; and you would have the interesting +experience of watching the process, though unable to intervene. Suppose +Miss Mary MacAskival were the young lady? I’m sure she could tell us +a great deal about you.” Jackman’s marvellous eyes glinted. “Torment +is the great leveller, Logan: in torment, the colonel’s lady and Judy +O’Grady are sisters under the skin. There are no class distinctions +in agony; our Miss MacAskival would behave like the lowest trull from +Piccadilly, except that she would scream louder and talk sooner.” + +It required a considerable effort, but Logan kept a smiling +countenance. If he protested, or showed any sign of weakness, Jackman +would take precisely this course; he was being sounded. Indifference on +his part, just now, was the chief hope for Mary. + +“Ah, well, Dr. Jackman, you and I are playing for higher stakes than +a slip of a girl, aren’t we? If you must, you must; but I may as well +tell you that you’d be wasting the time of both of us. Miss MacAskival +knows only just what I found necessary to tell her, which is precious +little. As for my being racked vicariously by her discomforts--why, you +and I got past that a good time ago, didn’t we, Jackman? ‘O had ye been +where I ha’ been, and seen wha’ I ha’ seen....’ When fellows like us +have supped long on horrors, another squeal or two doesn’t much matter. +Besides, I doubt whether you have much taste for twisting ladies’ arms, +Jackman. I know you did your share of the disagreeable business, that +very sort of business, in Barcelona and Bucharest--oh, I know all about +you, Jackman”--here Jackman grimaced, taken aback--“but really, though +you make such operations sound jolly, they aren’t very good fun, are +they, now? One never quite grows accustomed to them; they stick in the +craw; and what’s worse, they stick at the back of the brain, don’t +they? Even our friend Royall, I suspect, doesn’t relish that business +as he should.” + +“Even so, Logan, I wouldn’t have to turn my own hands to the work, you +know. Those strapping fellows downstairs would jump at the chance. +They’ve been somewhat inhibited from their accustomed earthy pleasures +here in Carnglass, poor chaps, and some haven’t had their way with a +woman for months. Your recent little _contretemps_ with Anderson, for +instance--I’m certain Anderson would perform the task with enthusiasm. +They’re a trifle coarse-fibred, my men, and to apply the _peine fort et +dure_ to a young lady would be quite their cup of tea.” + +“No doubt, no doubt, old chap.” Here Logan took a knight from Jackman. +“I have limitless confidence in their aptitude for such work, if for no +other. But the powers that be still would tend to hold you personally +responsible, wouldn’t they, now? And suppose the interrogation should +all be in vain--why, however could you explain? Nothing does a +diligent man’s reputation more serious damage than an unauthorized and +unnecessary atrocity. _You_ ought to know that by this time, Jackman.” + +“The things I did, others told me to do, Logan.” Jackman’s lips worked. +He lost another pawn. + +“Quite. But you went rather beyond specific instructions, didn’t you? I +don’t advise you to exceed instructions here in Carnglass.” + +Jackman ran a hand lightly across his forehead, distractedly touching +the little round soft patch in the middle with a forefinger. He +ventured out a rook too far, and lost it to Logan. Then he looked, +silent, into Logan’s eyes. The gaze of those great glowing pupils of +Jackman’s was hard to bear. Into Logan’s mind came the sentence, “And +if thy light be darkness, how great shall be that darkness.” It was +just possible that he might prove a match of Edmund Jackman now, though +the odds were against him. The man’s brain must be damaged, and under +Jackman’s outward imperiousness, Logan suspected, vacillation was +gnawing away. Logan thought also that had he encountered Jackman at the +height of the man’s powers, Mary would have had a sorry knight-errant. +But now the merciless energy and talent which had been Jackman’s were +flickering in the socket, like enough, and Logan had to deal only with +the remnant of a bad man. In Jackman’s ears sounded the wings of the +Furies, and his mind sank further into doubt and dread. Or so Logan +surmised, looking into those splendid, troubling eyes. It was just +barely conceivable that Logan might defeat this failing master of +deceit. + +Logan started, and shook his head to rouse his consciousness. Had +Jackman been attempting to mesmerize him? If so, the attempted +paralysis of will had not succeeded, what with Logan’s own mind +being full of plots and stratagems. Yet Jackman might have come near +successful hypnosis; Logan had a feeling that the man had been asking +him questions, in a low, almost friendly voice, to which Logan had +given no answers as yet. + +Just now Jackman was saying, ever so softly, “Who _are_ your friends +outside the Old House, out there in the wet and the dark?” + +“Friends?” Logan spoke shrilly, alarmed at his own near-slip into +reverie or trance. “Friends? Whose friends? If anyone’s outside, +they’re no people of mine.” Logan regretted this admission as soon as +he had made it; it would have done no harm to keep Jackman wondering +whether he had an accomplice or two hidden in the bracken. Indeed, +perhaps Jackman had begun to extract the truth from him by hypnosis, +and Logan had escaped from the domination of those black eyes only in +the nick of time. + +But Jackman shook his head slowly, in disbelief; and his eyes went to +the window of that room high in the tower, almost as if he feared to +see some face pressed against the pane, far above the living rock of +the Old House’s foundation. It was borne in upon Logan that Jackman’s +unease was greater than his own fears. + +Jackman licked his thin lips. “Why, Logan, who do you expect me to +believe they are?” If the mystery back there behind the bracken had +shaken Jackman this much, the panic must be worse among the men below +stairs, with Rab’s hysteria to work upon them. “If they were police +or intelligence people,” Jackman said, almost as if he expected to be +overheard by some presence in that dusky painted chamber, “they would +have swooped upon us long ago; they wouldn’t skulk about, picking off +first one man and then another.” + +“Rab told you that it was Tam Lagg: old Lagg, Dr. Jackman, that you +sent over the cliffs a thousand feet down to the rocks and the sea, +while he screamed of his wife and his bairns.” + +Jackman looked at Logan astonished. “You, Logan--were you watching +then? But no, you’ll have had that from Donley, before you finished +with him. Lagg? What are you talking of? I saw him strike a crag half +way down, and bounce off like a ball, and then fall to the sea. Such a +thing doesn’t walk again.” + +“Not alive,” Logan replied. “No, not alive.” Jackman’s eyes dilated. +Yes, he could sound this note, Logan decided: the black beast was upon +Jackman’s shoulders, and the conjuror was bewitched. If ever a man +was haunted, it was Jackman, stalked by Spanish victims and Roumanian +spectres, and now with the wraith of Lagg at his heels. “See here, +Jackman: you raise sham bogles to frighten old women, and you laugh +up your sleeve. But when you play with things from the abyss, you +run risks. In this dead island of Carnglass, all round us things are +ready to stir, if they’re called. I felt them in Dalcruach clachan. In +Carnglass the dead are more than the living. And why shouldn’t Tam Lagg +rise? You gave him the death that he feared most to die. If ever you +set a spirit to walk the night, it was when you tossed that screaming +man from the headland at the back of St. Merin’s Chapel.” + +As Logan spoke, a nasty change came over Jackman. His face went a sick +white, and his eyes closed, and he slumped in his chair. The horror +must be on him. His breath came hard. Logan began to think of closing +with him as he sat motionless across the table. But after a moment, +Jackman gasped, blinked, and fumbled for the pistol in his pocket; he +drew the gun and laid it before him, beside the chessboard. + +“Then you feel it, too,” Jackman muttered, very low. “All about us, eh? +Oh, this is a damned house, a place of dreams, horrid dreams. Listen: +last night I walked the passages, for I didn’t dare to sleep, until I +was worn out. In the end, I lay on my bed, not closing my eyes. And +then it was not a bed, but a long, close tunnel or cave, and I was +stumbling along it. Away at the end, I could see something standing. +And it came to me that I myself was standing there, even though I +walked toward the thing. The Edmund Jackman at the end of the cave was +the Edmund Jackman that I might have been, if--if I had taken another +turn at the beginning. And as I came up to myself, wanting to see the +face, and the beauty of what I might have been, the thing turned, and +looked at me. Its face was the face of a goat. Ah, the slit eyes! And I +became one with it, and woke, and the horror still was on me.” + +Infected by the man’s loathing of himself, and his fright, Logan also +lowered his voice to a whisper. “Would you rather have died in the cave +than have become one with the goat?” + +“Yes,” said Jackman, “yes. It would be better to lie dead, dead like +Lagg. I thought then of the gelignite, and I think of it every day and +every night.” At this, Jackman shuddered, seemed to collect his wits, +scowled at Logan, and glanced dully at the Table-Men of Askival on the +board before him. + +“Your move,” Logan reminded him. Edmund Jackman moved almost at random. +“So!” Logan shifted his queen. “Checkmate, Dr. Jackman.” + +“Hell!” cried Jackman, reaching out his hand as if to sweep the pieces +to the floor. + +“Easy!” Logan said, intercepting Jackman’s hand with his own. “There’s +but this one set in the world, you know.” + +Once more their eyes met in a long, strange stare; then Jackman, to +Logan’s surprise, glanced down at the table. “Logan, or whatever +you are,” he said, almost pleadingly, “I don’t know whether you can +understand me. You’re a Party intellectual, I think, and the Party +believes it knows all things. Yet in some matters the Party is blind. +Just now I said ‘Hell.’ In Carnglass, I have learned that Hell is real. +That’s heresy in the Party; but I have looked on Hell. There is no +Heaven, but there is Hell.” + +Jackman’s eyes were vacant now; he seemed to have forgotten to whom he +spoke. “Hell endures,” he went on. “I have been in Hell always. This +Carnglass is Hell. Don’t you know you were here in Carnglass before, +infinitely long ago? We fought here then--and I lost. In Carnglass +there is no time. Eternity is real here, and change is the delusion. +I know this in the nights, when I walk the corridors. It is only in +the day I can pretend that I am alive, or that what things I do can +possibly save me from the torment. In the nights it is Hell that is +real, and the Party is a sham. Do you understand that? And I know that +you came here to send me to the torment, as you did before.” + +Many times, Logan had heard the phrase “possessed of a devil.” But +not until this moment, as he sat opposite Jackman with the chessmen +between them, had he perceived the full and dreadful meaning of the +words. The dark powers had claimed Edmund Jackman long since, and what +sat opposite him was only the husk of a human being. Even the husk +was crumbling now. Yet out of that desiccated scrap of mortality, dry +and empty as the armor of last summer’s locust, there echoed now and +again cries of anguish, the vain contrition of the damned. Whatever +traditionary spectres might throng round the Old House of Fear, here +right before Logan sat the ghost of what once might have been a vessel +for honor. + +Again Jackman’s eyes had closed, and the man or devil did not stir in +the chair. What visions came and went behind those fallen eyelids, +Logan preferred not to think. Jackman had drifted somewhere beyond this +world of sense, for the moment. In the middle of that pallid forehead, +the nasty round spot, the Third Eye, seemed to pulsate faintly, as if +keeping night watch upon Logan. + +Hugh Logan fought clear of the contagion of madness. Minutes, precious +minutes, were slipping away. By a heap of chessmen lay the little +pistol. Should he make a try for it? Or was this some sort of trap +that Jackman had set? No, the damned man’s trance was genuine. If he +chose, Logan could leap up, snatch the pistol, and make for the stairs. +But that gang of murderers was below. And where might Mary and he run +to? Well, let him get his hands on a rifle, and he might hold the old +tower against them for a time. It might be possible to keep Jackman a +hostage. The scheme was fantastic, but the only probable alternative +was torture and death for Mary MacAskival and himself. Rising silent +from his chair, Logan stretched out a hand toward the gun. + +“As you were!” It was Royall’s harsh voice, at Logan’s back. A +revolver-muzzle pressed into his spine. Royall’s long, almost skeletal +arm reached past him and snatched up the little pistol by the chessmen. +“Over to the wall,” Royall said, “and stand there till I tell you to +turn round. I’ve been behind the screen these ten minutes past, Logan.” + + + + +11 + + +It would have been a lunatic try anyhow, Logan thought as he faced the +wall. Behind him, Royall was ministering to Dr. Jackman, but Logan felt +sure that if he swung round, Royall would not miss. + +“Here, a little brandy,” Royall was saying, rather in the tone of a +nurse. “Come round now, Dr. Jackman. It’s no time for fancies.” There +was a sound as if Royall were gently slapping Jackman’s cheeks. “That’s +it, sir: are you quite awake now, Dr. Jackman?” + +Jackman’s voice came choked and faint, but grew in power after the +first few words. “Askival,” Jackman was saying. “Askival--where is he? +And Lagg?” + +“Take hold of yourself, Dr. Jackman. We’ve this fellow Logan to deal +with. Very well, Logan: come over here and sit down.” + +For the present, Royall had assumed command. With his revolver +he gestured toward the chair in which Logan had sat during the +chess-match, and Logan took it without protest. Royall continued to +stand. On the other side of the table, Jackman seemed in possession of +his faculties again. + +“We’d best search this man,” Royall said. He slipped a hand inside +Logan’s jacket, still standing at Logan’s back, and found his wallet. +Logan did not move: Jackman was watching him keenly, his hand on the +pistol. They would find no identification in the wallet, for Logan +had put his passport and anything else with his name on it into the +knapsack. + +“No, sir, there’s nothing with a name, worse luck,” Royall murmured. +“Stand up and take off your jacket, Logan.” Logan did as he was told. +In a moment Royall thrust the jacket back to him. “And no labels, Dr. +Jackman. The man must be an old hand at his game.” + +“Tompkins searched his room this morning?” Jackman asked. + +“Yes; and he found nothing but a razor and the like. No papers--and not +even the canvas sack this man brought with him. I suppose he burnt it +in the fireplace, or else flung it out of the window and down the cliff +to the sea.” + +“Have a man look along the rocks at low tide,” Jackman said. “Yes, our +friend Logan undoubtedly has had experience as an agent of some sort.” + +“You needn’t bother to have a man risk his bones on those weedy +ledges,” Logan told them. “I burnt the sack on the coals, last night.” +He trusted that Mary had tucked away the pack in some really secure +hidie-hole. + +“For your circumstances, Logan,” Royall muttered, “you seem +unreasonably cheerful. I shouldn’t care to find myself in your present +situation.” Royall ran his hands carefully along Logan’s trousers and +into his pockets. “No, Dr. Jackman--no knife, and no papers stitched +into the linings.” + +“Why,” said Logan, “I suppose a man might as well laugh as cry. And +then, don’t you know, it’s not I who need to fash--as we true-born +Scots say. It’s you gentlemen who will have to make your peace, if you +can, with the men that will be here all too soon for your comfort.” + +“Sit down again, Logan,” Royall ordered. “You needn’t sing that tune +for us. If you had any people at your back, we’d have seen them before +this.” + +“Oh?” Logan answered, amicably. “And who do you suppose took +Carruthers? Donley was dead hours before you missed Carruthers, +remember.” + +Jackman and Royall stared at each other, silent. In that moment, Logan +almost felt a touch of pity for them. Both must have been reared and +educated well enough--very well, indeed. What flaws of character +or intellectual false turnings had brought them into this ruthless +business, he could not tell. They might have commenced, like others, +full of humanitarian sentimentality. And then, perhaps, demon ideology, +with its imperatives and its inexorable dogmas, its sobersided +caricature of religion, had swept them on to horrors. Ideological +fanaticism had made of Jackman the goat-man, mastered by lust: but not +the lust for women’s bodies. Jackman’s was the _libido dominandi_, the +tormented seeking after power that ceases not until death. And in the +flame of that lust for power, Jackman and Royall would be burnt up, +today or next week or next month: they were at the end of their devil’s +bargain, and the fiend would claim his own. + +Now, in this oppressive silent moment, the conviction came to Logan +that these two artists of disintegration were more frightened than +he. He felt surprised to find himself thinking clearly enough, almost +ruminating, in this tension that made electric the ancient room with +the painted ceiling. Because frightened, Jackman and Royall were the +more dangerous; but also their brains were stagnant with dread. + +Fear, it crossed Logan’s mind, is the normal condition of man, after +all. Quiet ages and safe lands are the rare exceptions in history. +Nowadays the tides of disorder were gnawing at whatever security and +justice still stood in the world, quite as the swell round Carnglass +sought to bring down that heap of gray stones to the mindless anonymity +of the ocean. With growing speed, the brooding spectre of terror, +almost palpable in Carnglass, was enveloping the world. This island was +the microcosm of modern existence. + +And here in the haunted stronghold of the Old House of Fear, Jackman +and Royall and their gang found themselves caught in their own snare. +Even the dull criminals below stairs, huddled tipsily by the kitchen +fire, were unmanned by a dim sense of catastrophe, caught up in a +horror of the empty island, where mist and silence seemed to have made +away with time, so that Glasgow and Liverpool and London were fancies +out of an illusory past. + +Jackman himself, with his distraught imagination, his ruined talents +once near to genius, fancied himself snared here by destiny, condemned +to give reality to a myth. And was he wrong? In the Old House, Logan +doubted where the realm of spirit ended and the realm of flesh began. + +In this dead island, all Jackman’s cleverness lay frustrated, and the +strange chance or power that had brought Logan to Carnglass on this day +seemed to fill the close air in that forgotten tower-room. For Edmund +Jackman, Logan might be something not quite canny, at once a man and +an occult agent. Even for Royall, Hugh Logan must seem a retributive +figure, from Party or police, mercilessly calm with the knowledge that +others were not far behind him. + +For all their effort to behave as if they still were masters of the +island, a tautness almost hysterical had crept into Jackman and Royall, +and their voices were strained. What for years they had dealt out to +others, now waited for them; and they had forgotten the meaning of +mercy. There was no justice to which they could appeal. By fear they +had lived; and now the fear which they and their sort had carried +throughout the world was claiming them also. Having murdered order, +these two at last were cast into the outer darkness. + +Jackman was speaking. Had something like a quaver crept into that +urbane and sardonic voice? “Well, Royall,” he was saying, “what will we +do with this Logan?” + +Royall shifted uncertainly behind Logan’s chair. This man, it occurred +to Logan, saw the growing madness in his leader, and yet was loyal--his +last link with old-fangled human affections. + +“Dr. Jackman,” Royall said, “I have a theory concerning our friend +Logan. I believe he’s one of Vlanarov’s people.” + +Jackman now spoke with his old decisiveness, as if another spirit had +entered into that sinister body, and as if what had happened during the +preceding half hour had quite washed away from his memory. “Possibly,” +Jackman commented. “Quite possibly. The thought had crossed my mind, +too. If he should be, perhaps we can arrive at satisfactory terms. +Well, Logan?” + +Logan devoutly wished, at this juncture, that he had studied more +attentively the recent history of Eastern Europe. If he had fought in +Europe, rather than in the Pacific, that might have been of some help; +or had he been in intelligence, rather than the infantry. As it was, +the name Vlanarov told him a little, but not enough. If memory served +him aright, Vlanarov was such a one as Jackman, but a much bigger +fish. Logan rather thought that Vlanarov had been at Bela Kun’s side +in Hungary, a generation ago, and in Madrid during the Civil War, +and after 1945 a terror in Poland. Through all the vicissitudes of +Party feuds and all the eddies of ideology in the buffer states, the +shadowy but formidable figure of Vlanarov had glided scatheless. No +one ever saw a photograph of the man. It had been his peculiar talent +to anticipate the triumph of particular factions within the Soviet +states, and to shift masterfully in precisely the proper moment from +one interpretation of Marxist doctrine to the corrected version. +Whenever a vanquished clique fell to its ruin, Vlanarov sorted through +the wreck for such survivors as might still do mischief to the new +Party orthodoxy, and clipped their claws and their wings for them--or +something worse. Certain Trotskyites called Vlanarov “The Vulture.” + +This much, Logan recalled. And he could see that conceivably the pose +of being one of Vlanarov’s people, at watch upon Jackman’s schemes, +might save his neck. But the great difficulty was that he knew far +too little of Party intrigues to play this role to the full. For that +matter, he was not precisely sure that Vlanarov still was alive: Royall +might be setting a trap for him. + +“Yes,” Royall was saying, “I fancy that he’s a Vlanarovite, sent over +by Bruhl from Brussels, to report on our work. Only one of that sort +could have made away with Donley so efficiently.” + +Jackman, now tense and erect in his chair, nodded. “Logan,” he said, +“if you come from Bruhl or Vlanarov, with instructions for us or +perhaps for a survey--why, tell me now. After all, you can’t expect to +remain anonymous much longer, because tomorrow or next day I should +receive word from Glasgow, and perhaps from Paris.” + +“No, Jackman, I don’t think you will.” Logan had resolved to sound as +much like a Vlanarovite as possible, without being expected to furnish +proof positive. “You’ve contrived to get your boats burnt for you by a +stupid old Irishman. You’ve had part of your wireless stolen”--Jackman +started at this--“and you’ve no way of sending word to shore. And you +saddled yourself with the clumsiest set of agents that ever I set +eyes upon. Gare, that drunken incompetent; Dowie, who’s fit only for +filching sixpences from slum boys; Jock Anderson, all swagger and no +nerve. We gobbled the lot of them.” Logan opened his right hand wide +and closed it hard, as if crushing something within. “They’re awa’ +doon the water, Jackman. An old hand like you! One would think you had +turned to drink. But you’ve turned to old wives’ tales, instead.” + +Jackman bit his lip. “Do you mean--do you mean they’ve been taken?” + +“Liquidated is our word, Dr. Jackman. They were, after all, depreciated +assets. And were I you, Jackman, I’d look sharp. What have you +accomplished here in Carnglass? The rags and tags of information you’ve +collected in foraging round the islands are next to worthless. We have +better ways of mapping those missile sites. And playing with gelignite, +like a boy with firecrackers! You’d never get the stuff past the guards +at the installations, if you seriously tried: these hangdog fellows +you’ve collected here in Carnglass haven’t the heart or the mind for +it. You drove out your only experienced man, Donley, so that he had to +be liquidated for fear he’d talk. Unauthorized enthusiasm! It will be +your ruin, Jackman.” + +“But after all,” Royall put in eagerly, “Bruhl himself gave his consent +to this project.” + +“Tentative consent is one thing,” Logan said; “approval of blunders in +operation is another.” + +Jackman ran his fingers across his forehead in his old gesture +of incertitude. “Logan,” he said, “I believe you really are from +Vlanarov’s people. You’re a Party intellectual: you’ve the look and +tone of it. In short, you’re a man we can talk with. You must know as +well as we do what has gone wrong with this scheme. The people in the +Continent want action from me, but they’ll take no risks nor spend any +money. For that matter, they’ll give me no men. I am expected to extort +the funds from old women, conscript a set of criminals and hold them +together by blackmail and intimidation, and pay the penalty by myself, +with my own neck, if everything falls in pieces. + +“For years those people have used Royall and me in this way. Edmund +Jackman, who ought to be forming policy at the upper levels, set to +leading a gang of banditti at the back of beyond! It’s enough to craze +a man. As one intellectual to another, do you see any justice in that? +Bureaucracy on the one hand, fanatic ideological rigidity on the other; +and the best minds in the Party, like yours and mine, fallen between +the stools. In my situation, what would you have done differently?” He +was almost wheedling. + +“I’m not authorized to offer any opinion on that subject, as yet,” +Logan said, with what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. + +“Perhaps I had better make it clear, Logan,” Royall put in, “that Dr. +Jackman’s association with Beria arose solely from necessity, and from +his obedience to Party discipline. We regret as much as anyone does +what happened to Vlanarov’s father.” + +“Do you have a cigarette?” said Logan. “I suppose lunch will be ready +soon.” + +“Logan,” Jackman demanded, intensely, “are you here to supplant me? +If you are, why this shilly-shallying? Can’t you have the decency to +present your instructions?” + +“Why, I’m in no position as yet to give definite orders, Jackman. The +decisions must be yours; I decline any responsibility. But this I will +suggest: disarm your men, lock up the guns, and give me the keys to the +gunroom and the cellars where you keep the gelignite. Send all the men +down to the New House except Tompkins and Royall. Light a beacon, or +send up flares, and put Carnglass in communication with the mainland +through ordinary channels. Leave me in charge of the Old House. Then +wait the turn of events. If you do this, I’ll put in my good word for +you with my superiors.” + +This was spreading it perilously thick, Logan thought, but one might as +well be taken for a tiger as for an alley-cat. + +Jackman sucked in his breath. “You ask too much, Logan, whoever +or whatever you are. Is this some plan to make Royall and me the +scapegoats? To hand us over to the police or intelligence, possibly, by +way of covering some one else’s blunders? I’ve been treated that way +before, Logan, and I’ll not endure it again. Sooner than that--sooner +than the gaol or the gallows--I’d walk into the cellars and detonate +the gelignite. I’d rather blow Carnglass into pebbles than be the dupe +once more.” + +“You asked for suggestions, Jackman. I told you I’d assume no +responsibilities.” Logan had not dared to hope that Jackman actually +would fall into his impromptu snare; but at least it served to bewilder +Jackman and Royall. + +“And if we did disarm the men,” Royall volunteered, “who would keep +off your friends outside? The ones that made away with Carruthers, +and sent Rab mad? What’s your scheme, Logan--to liquidate all of us +in Carnglass? To send us to join Gare and Dowie and Jock Anderson +and Donley? To make sure that no one here ever has an opportunity to +furnish evidence to the government?” + +Inadvertently, he might have carried the game too far, Logan saw: he +might get himself drowned for a commissar instead of a police-agent. + +“Damn it,” Jackman almost shouted, the patch in the middle of his +forehead twitching, “are you really from Vlanarov? Do you have another +name?” + +“I’ll tell you when there’s need for it,” was all Logan answered him. +For Jackman was losing control of himself, and it was conceivable that +he might shoot Logan where he stood. + +“Now, now, Dr. Jackman,” Royall murmured, “if he _is_ from Vlanarov, +we’d best not....” + +“No!” Jackman cried, his air of power returning to him. “No, you’ll +tell me soon enough. If you’re sent by that mutual-admiration circle +in the Continent, I’ll have that news out of you, and make you pay +for it. And if you’re something worse, I’ll twist that truth from you. +I know your medicine, Logan. You’re going into the Whiskey Bottle; +there’s no man who can endure that place long. You’ll talk with me, and +thank me for the chance.” + +“Dr. Jackman, I really do think ...” Royall began, uneasily. But +Jackman cut him off. + +“Mr. Royall, get Anderson and Caggia. We’ll put our friend Logan away +below stairs. The responsibility is mine. And while I’m at the Whiskey +Bottle, you make the rounds of the house, Royall, and make sure all the +men have ammunition enough.” + +It never would do to let Jackman see any sign of weakness in him, for +the man subsisted on others’ dread, and was most merciless, Logan +guessed, when they were most piteous. Deliberately Logan gathered up +the Table-Men and set them in their casket. “I thought you had a taste +for sherry, Jackman,” he said, “but you seem to have whiskey in mind +for me.” Jackman answered nothing. Then Anderson and Ferd entered. +Anderson’s jaw was bound up in a bloody handkerchief, and the man +looked murder at Logan. + +In silence, Jackman and Anderson and Ferd Caggia took Logan down the +worn stair in the thickness of the wall. They took him to the ground +floor of the old tower, where first he had met Mary MacAskival only +yesterday about this hour, though it seemed an age ago. And they shoved +him toward one corner of that great vaulted empty room. In that corner, +flush with the flagstones, a small stair twisted downward, below the +level of the rock on which the Old House stood. Anderson thrust him +forward with a curse, so that Logan staggered down the short flight, +the three men behind him. + +The place below was wholly dark. Caggia carried a petrol lantern, and +he lit it and swung it round. This crypt, hollowed from the rock, +apparently contained nothing but what looked like a broken windlass in +a far corner, and what seemed to be a coil or heap of rope in a near +corner. And in the middle of the floor was a circular lid or cover of +stone, with an iron ring set into it. Caggia and Anderson commenced to +drag back this lid. + +This being, perhaps, his last appearance above ground, Logan thought +he ought to improve the shining hour. “I do hope, Anderson,” he said, +“that your jaw doesn’t pain you.” Anderson responded with an obscenity. +“I am acquainted with your brother Jock in the Gallowgate,” Logan went +on. “A lively man, Jock. He kicked me in the jaw not long ago.” + +“Gude for Jock,” growled Anderson. “I’ll soon gie ye anither.” + +“But we caught him, Davie Anderson,” Logan continued, “and put him +where he’ll kick no more. We caught Jim Dowie and his wife Jeanie, +too, and the others. And now all the world knows of the criminals of +Carnglass.” + +“Enough of that, Logan,” Jackman put in. Anderson and Ferd were +standing by the open mouth of a pit or cistern, staring attentively at +Logan. Jackman pressed the muzzle of the little pistol into Logan’s +back and urged him toward the gulf. This must be the pit, for dead +herring or dead men, described in Balmullo’s account of the Old House. + +“Dr. Jackman,” Logan said in some haste, “I do trust that when, +tomorrow or the next day, you decide in despair to blow up the Old +House, yourself, and everyone round about, you will allow these two +fine fellows to join me in this well of yours. It will probably be the +safest place for some miles round. I doubt whether Anderson and Caggia +are so ready to die as you are.” + +Ferd Caggia’s perpetual grin diminished. He glanced appraisingly at Dr. +Jackman. “Ferd,” said Logan, “presumably you will be brought to trial +for treason, at the least, even if you escape Dr. Jackman’s gelignite. +They tell me that you are an excellent shot. If I were you, I should +endeavor to persuade Dr. Jackman to remain a comfortable distance from +the crypt where he keeps the explosives.” + +“Logan,” Jackman muttered in his ear, “do you want a bullet in your +spine?” + +“By no means, Dr. Jackman. And try not to forget that there will be +people asking after me, very soon.” Would they try to throw him into +the pit that stood open right by his feet? + +“Kneel down,” Jackman told him, “and you may have a glimpse of the +Whiskey Bottle. Do you know the Mamertine prison in Rome? This is very +like, Logan, but deeper.” + +Caggia had tied a long cord to the lantern, which now he lowered into +the hole and swung in a circle, slowly, so as to show the interior of +the place. Kneeling reluctantly, Logan made out an immense dry depth. +The pit was shaped roughly like a bottle, narrow at the mouth and +gradually widening, and going down, down. It was irregular, however, +with bulges and depressions here and there in its sides, as if more +the work of nature than of man. From the mouth, one could not get a +clear view of the whole interior. The lantern sank lower and lower +into the abyss, and still Logan could not perceive the bottom; then +Caggia hauled it up. In this place, according to Balmullo’s history of +Carnglass, had been found the deformed skeleton that the crofters had +called the Firgower. If ever the pit had been filled with salt herring, +it must have enabled the Old House to withstand a siege of months, +supposing there was fresh water enough to drink. + +Logan stood firm upon the lip of the Whiskey Bottle. Nothing but +audacity, he felt, would discourage Jackman from indulging in a new +atrocity at this moment. “Look sharp that our friend Dr. Jackman +doesn’t put you, too, down this well, Caggia,” he remarked. “It must +tell on one’s nerves to have a lunatic bent upon self-destruction for +an employer.” + +“There you’ll stay, Logan, until you feel inclined to talk with us,” +Jackman said, rolling the words thickly. “If I don’t forget you. You’ll +not eat or drink until we let you out--if we do. I won’t say when we’ll +come back to inquire after you: it may be hours, or it may be days. A +man does not stay sane very long in the Whiskey Bottle. If you come out +in time, there’s no harm done. Scream when you wish to come out, and +perhaps we will hear you. Better men than you have gone down and not +come up alive. Down with you, now.” + +Anderson had dragged from the corner a long rope ladder. He made it +fast to two iron rings sunk in the floor of the crypt, and let the rope +fall into the pit. “There you go,” said Jackman. “Goodnight to you, Mr. +Logan.” + +“I think I’ll not go,” Logan told them. They scarcely could carry him +down the swaying rope ladder. + +“In that event,” Jackman remarked--and Anderson sniggered--“we would +have to pitch you in, and it’s nearly fifty feet to the bottom, so you +would be broken. Or we would have to lower you in at a rope’s end, head +first, with risk to your skull. I advise you to choose the ladder.” + +There was nothing else for it. Logan set his feet and hands on the +swaying ladder, and began to descend. As he went down, the feet of the +three men disappeared from view, and presently he was in blackness. +After what seemed eternity, swinging and twisting about on the ropes, +he felt no rung-slat under his foot, and halted, twirling back and +forth like a top in space. Did they mean him to fall and break his legs +or back? “It doesn’t reach,” he called up. The echo was melancholy. + +“Jump for it,” Jackman’s voice sounded ever so faintly above. + +“I’ll be damned if I do,” Logan roared back. + +“You’ll be damned if you don’t,” called Jackman, “for we’ll loose the +ladder at this end, and you’ll fall anyhow, and there’ll be no way +back.” + +Waiting was no comfort. Logan relinquished his hold on the ladder, +expecting his end. But he fell only six or seven feet, bruising his +back on the jagged stone floor, which was quite dry. He could hear +the rustle of the ladder being hauled up. The light of the lantern +glimmered at the top of the Bottle, and a head was thrust over the +mouth of the shaft, silhouetted against the petrol glare. + +“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,” Jackman said, “shriek when you +care for our company.” He laughed. Then he said something else, more +faintly; but Logan thought it was, “Once you put me here, Askival.” +There came a scraping sound from above, and the lid was dragged back +over the Bottle’s mouth, cutting off Logan from the world. He was shut +into the tomb now, as in his dream on the second night in Carnglass. +As if the stone cover had not been coffin-lid enough, an iron door had +stood ajar, Logan remembered, at the entrance to the crypt, a big key +in the lock. No doubt they would turn the key. Goodbye, Mary MacAskival. + + + + +12 + + +In the Whiskey Bottle, it would not do to brood more than a man might +help, for that way lay despair: especially when one thought of what +might be done to Mary MacAskival, high above. So Logan busied himself, +at first, in creeping round the circumference of the Bottle’s floor, +feeling everywhere. There was nothing to feel but lumpy naked rock, +everywhere gouged by ancient chisels. + +The batter of the circular sides made it impossible for him even to +think of climbing, fly-like, toward the mouth. These pleasures soon +were exhausted. His watch had not worked well since he splashed ashore +in Carnglass, and perhaps that was to the good. Already he was hungry +and thirsty; but this last must be chiefly a psychological oppression, +as the damp air of Carnglass made it unnecessary for a man to drink +much water a day. + +Although he had been in the place but a quarter of an hour, probably, +the problem of fresh air began to worry Logan. It was silly to think +about it so soon, of course: the immense cubic capacity of the Bottle +would give him oxygen enough for a long time, and conceivably enough to +support life leaked beneath the rude stone at the mouth, anyway. But +one thought about such things in the Bottle, for lack of aught else to +do. + +In all that dead island, the Whiskey Bottle was the deadest place. Not +even an insect could live here; and the place was so dry that, perhaps, +not even a lichen could cling to the sloping walls. One could think +only of dead things: of the deformed skeleton found on this floor, and +the presences that drifted through Jackman’s guilty brain. It wouldn’t +do for a man to think such thoughts: not for a man who meant to keep +his wits about him. If ever they let him out of the Bottle, he would +need all the wits and all the strength he could muster. The best thing +to do, then, was to sleep. Luckily, Logan was very tired from the +strain of the past several days, and from having had so little sleep +last night, what with his colloquy with Mary MacAskival. And sleep +never had come hard to him, in the worst of times and places. He groped +about the rough floor until he found a tolerable area upon which to +stretch himself, and there he lay down, his head on his arm, and soon +drifted off. Dreams came, hideous dreams; but afterward they were all a +blur to him. Now and then he tossed and woke imperfectly; then, like a +sick man, he sank back into the sanctuary of the unconscious. + +How many hours later it was that a noise woke him, he could not say. +What could make a noise in the Bottle? Nothing living. It was a faint +dragging noise. Then high overhead, he could perceive the faintest +half-moon of light. Someone was dragging back the stone lid of the +Bottle, slowly. + +Would Jackman and Royall pull him out and put him to more direct +torture? If they had tormented the truth about him out of Mary +MacAskival, the odds were that they would put him into the sea, as a +man who knew too much of them, and whose death might be explained with +tolerable ease. It might be easier for him to refuse to come up, and +hope that aid might come from the mainland in time. They could descend, +of course, and tie him, and haul him to the top; but that would mean a +fight. If they shot him, that would be evidence of foul play, supposing +his body ever were washed up. + +Now something scraped and rustled, and barely brushed the top of his +head: it must be the rope ladder. Reaching up, he grasped the thin +strip of wood that was the bottom rung. Still Jackman, if he were +above, said nothing. But a light probed downward toward Logan; someone +up there held an electric torch. He had might as well take this +dubious chance. Although it had been long since Logan had gone in for +gymnastics, he had strong arms, and so contrived to pull his chin up to +the level of the bottom rung, get a fresh grip, and bring up his legs. +And then he commenced the swaying climb toward the Bottle’s mouth. + +As he neared the top, the torch dazzled him. Then a hand caught his, +helping him over the edge to the floor of the crypt. No sooner had +Logan got to his feet than a pair of arms was flung around his neck, +and a small body hung for a moment upon his, in fright and delight. +“They’ve broken no bone of you, Hugh?” said Mary MacAskival. Before he +could reply, she kissed him, and then flashed the electric torch the +length of his body, as if to be sure he were all there. “Don’t speak +above a wee whisper,” she murmured in his ear, “and come over here, for +we must be off.” Taking his hand, she led him through the dark toward a +corner of the crypt. + +“One glimpse of you, anyway,” said Hugh. Taking the torch, he sent the +beam over and behind her. She was barefoot, but with a pair of little +walking-shoes slung round her neck. On her back she had Logan’s own +rucksack, looking as if it were crammed with things. Her back was to +what seemed to be the low circular coping of a well, with a derelict +windlass above it. + +“We daren’t talk now,” the girl said, “for we’ll have but a quarter +of an hour, at best, before Niven gives the alarm. He’s sentry at the +garden door on the floor above. I told him I was taking you food and +water, which you’re not supposed to have, and he let me pass, for he +knows I am a red-haired witch. Jackman will thrash the poor fellow +within an inch of his life when he finds we’re gone. Niven never +thought I could get out with you, of course. If he’d known that, even I +couldn’t have seduced him.” + +“Seduced him?” + +She chuckled. “Oh, don’t be silly. Has Dr. Jackman been telling you +more lies about me? I mean, subverted his loyalty to Jackman. I gave +Niven five pounds and nearly a full bottle of rum. All right now, Hugh: +take off your trousers.” + +He was bemused. “Whatever for?” + +“Why, silly, we’re going down the cistern, and there’s water in it, and +you might catch your death of cold outside, with wet trousers. I think +you may keep your shirt on; we sha’n’t go so deep, I hope. Here, take +the pack, and carry it, and stuff your trousers in it. I can kilt up my +skirt once we’re at the level of the water, but you could hardly slip +off your trousers in the middle of the shaft. You’d best take off your +shoes and stockings, and sling them round your neck, the way I have, +too. You needn’t be shy: I’ll go down first, and I’ll point the torch +the other way.” + +Logan stared into the cistern. In the beam of the torch, he could see +rusted iron rungs set into the masonry, leading downward; but they +ended in still water. “If we’re to drown, Mary,” he said, “it had might +as well be in the sea.” + +“What with the gutters of the tower being half clogged,” she went on, +“the water level down there is very low nowadays--twelve or fifteen +feet, at best--and I feared they might find the arch, but they haven’t. +It’s perfectly feasible: Malcolm Mor and I did it four years ago, +like a bomb. Why, it’s a lark, Hugh; come along. The last one down +is an old maid.” Hiking her skirt halfway up her white thighs, Mary +MacAskival stepped over the well-coping, swung round, and began to +descend the slimy iron rungs. “I locked the crypt door on the inside, +for I have keys, you know,” she whispered up, “but Niven may be +pounding on it any second, so be quick with you.” + +There was nothing for it but to obey this madcap. Down Logan went into +the cistern; he hoped the old rungs would hold. Once his foot caught +the girl’s fingers, and she suppressed a cry. He heard a faint splash +of water below, and turned the torch downward, looking between his +bare legs. Mary MacAskival, her skirt held up almost to her shoulders, +was more than waist-high in the black water. “There is nothing in the +world,” she volunteered, “quite like a cold tub. Now do as I do, and +mind your head, for from floor to ceiling is scarcely more than four +feet.” She vanished. + +Dismayed, Hugh Logan descended to his waist in the cold water. Then, +on his left, he saw the arch of which Mary had spoken: a round-headed +masonry arch, very old. The cistern water came to within two feet of +the crown of it. Gingerly, Logan stretched out a leg, found the floor +of a passage under the arch, gripped Mary’s outstretched hand thrust +back from the passage, and swung himself from the iron rungs to a low +tunnel nearly filled with water; he had to stoop so that his face +cleared the surface by only a few inches, and his little pack, strapped +to his back, scraped against the roof. + +Squeezing his hand, Mary MacAskival pulled him along the black passage, +the torch-beam gleaming on the water. She had her skirt twisted round +her neck. “One thing’s certain,” she panted, “they’ll not hear us here. +In the old days, this place was flooded altogether, except when The +MacAskival let water out of the cistern so that men could enter the +passage. Malcolm Mor--he was the old gardener, remember?--told me +that his father’s father’s father’s uncle knew of this place, though +no living man had seen it for a hundred years and more. Malcolm and I +found it out together. We had grand larks.” + +After six yards or so, the floor began to slope upward, fairly sharply; +and after a dozen yards, they were free of the water. “No trousers +for you yet, modest Hugh,” Mary said, though she had let her skirt +fall into place. “There is water still to come.” A moment later, they +entered a small square rock chamber, beyond which loomed another narrow +passage. “The Picts made this, as they made the Whiskey Bottle, Hugh. +Look there.” She pointed the torch toward one wall, and by it Hugh +made out a faint band of carving on the wall: little hooded and caped +figures, faceless, some riding on queer little ponies. “This was a +chapel, I think, or a tomb; but we haven’t a moment to spare just now.” +She led the way into the further passage, the floor of which sloped +downward again. “We’re far beyond the Old House now, Hugh.” + +The passage shot abruptly downward, and then ended in a solid barrier +of living rock. Did the girl mean them to crouch here indefinitely, on +the chance that help might come from the mainland before they starved? +“I think the Picts dug all this for a temple,” she was saying, “or a +king’s tomb; but the MacAskivals used it as a sortie-port in time of +siege, or a way of escape if worst came to worst. Oh, I’m not strong +enough. Tug at it, Hugh!” She was kneeling on the rough floor. Handing +the torch back to her, Hugh Logan felt under his hands a thick stone +slab, roughly rectangular. He tugged. It could be slid to one side, far +enough to allow them to squeeze through to whatever lay beneath. And +beneath was more water. But this water splashed and sucked, and the +strong stench of seaweed came up from it; and from beyond came the roar +of the wild Carnglass tide. + +“We’re to go into that, Mary?” But Mary MacAskival already had swung +her handsome bare legs through the gap. The water just below snarled +and surged in the cave, as if full of murderous desire. “It’s past +midnight, Hugh, and the tide has ebbed.” She jumped down. + +After all, Logan found when he followed her, the water came only +to their knees. At high tide, the passage would be impossible. He +scratched a foot on some sharp submerged stone. Roof and floor of the +cave now angled downward, and the water deepened; but by the time they +reached the entrance, it was no higher than their waists. “In the old +days,” Mary said, “little coracles came into this at low tide. There +is another cave like this on the northern shore, but larger, and far +harder to reach from the land.” She plucked a bit of seaweed from a +rock. “This is the carrageen. In a better time, I will make you a +pudding of it.” Then she ducked through the low mouth of the cave, Hugh +Logan behind her, and they were in the night, by the ocean, a cliff at +their backs, a splendid moon overhead. + +For the first time in many days, the mist and drizzle had lifted from +Carnglass altogether; and for these islands, the sea was calm. But the +clear beauty of the night was small comfort to these two fugitives: +Jackman and his gang might hunt them down by that round moon. Mary +splashed through a rock pool toward the relatively low cliff of gray +stone that met the ocean at this point. “I think, Hugh, that by this +time they will have searched the Old House for us, and Jackman will +know we have got out. But they will not know the way that we have gone, +and perhaps Jackman cannot make the men follow him out of the house +this night, for they are afraid of every shadow now. Here we’re too +close to the Old House for safety. We’ll pass between Cailleach and the +sea-cliffs, and so up to St. Merin’s Chapel; that’s best.” When the two +of them had got to the foot of a faint path that seemed to wind up the +cliff, Mary put on shoes and stockings. “Now, Mr. Barrister Logan, you +pillar of respectability, you may wear trousers again.” + +They climbed; they scrambled; they trotted; when they could, they +ran. From the cliffs they descended into the glen that twisted +round the hill of Cailleach, and hurried through heaps of stones +along a forgotten trail; here, once, had been a village, and Duncan +MacAskival’s people had lived under the thatch of one of these ruins. +The girl was agile as a deer; it was all Logan could do to keep up with +her, for his rucksack was curiously heavy. The moonlight helped them +to make speed, but also it would leave them naked unto their enemies, +should Jackman and the rest come this way. For more than an hour they +hurried, until they had crossed a valley and saw before them the steep +way up to the highest point of Carnglass, the headland on which stood +St. Merin’s Chapel, with the graveyard round it. Then Mary flung +herself exhausted on the heather, and Logan sank down panting beside +her. Two or three strange white shapes scurried away from them; Logan +started. “Are those things deer or goats?” + +The tired girl laughed at him. “Carnglass sheep, like no other sheep +on earth. Long legs and long necks, and great leapers, and altogether +wild.” Everything in this forgotten island, it seemed, defied the tooth +of time. + +But it was no hour for philosophical observations. So soon as they had +got a little strength back, they must be away to the top of the island. +And what they could hope for there, aside from a brief respite, was +more than Logan could see. Unarmed, they would be much easier game +than Donley had been. Jackman and the rest would have their blood +up. This girl, it might be, had destroyed herself by trying to save +him. “Here, Hugh,” Mary said, “you’ll want this.” She took from the +rucksack a paper in which were wrapped some scraps of meat, two boiled +potatoes, and a piece of bread, all this salvaged furtively from Lady +MacAskival’s dinner-tray. Logan, indeed, was ravenous, and he ate the +lot, Mary insisting that she had got down a late supper. As he ate, she +told him what had passed since he went down the Whiskey Bottle. + +When Jackman and Royall had taken Logan to the study at gun-point, Mary +MacAskival had run to her room and locked herself in. It was only much +later in the day, when Jackman and most of the men were searching for +Carruthers, that she had bullied out of Niven the fact that Logan was +shut in the Whiskey Bottle. In her room, she had taken out of a chest +the only weapon she had, the ancient dirk that was said to have been +Askival’s, and had sat with it in her lap, expecting all the time to +have Jackman and Royall turn upon her next. But Jackman had only tried +her door; and, not being able to enter, had called out that he would +deal with her later. And then he had gone out to comb the island for +Carruthers, whom they did not find; nor did they find anyone else. The +men returned after sunset, Jackman and Royall going back to the study, +where they sat talking for hours. The girl had crept to the study door +and had caught fragments of their argument. + +No, they had not found Carruthers; but they had turned up something +else. When Donley’s body was searched in the cellar, one of the men +discovered in a pocket a water-soaked note. It was nearly illegible; +but they could make out Logan’s signature, and that it was addressed to +the police. On this evidence, Jackman and Royall abandoned their notion +that Logan was an agent of Vlanarov; they now took him for a detective. +The question remained as to what they ought to do with the man in the +Whiskey Bottle. Royall thought it best to hold him there until they +could get some boat, and then to run for it, abandoning their whole +project. But Jackman was for death: Logan knew too much, and must go +over the cliff. The two exhausted fanatics still were debating when the +girl slipped away, but she believed they would dispose of Logan in the +morning, if not sooner. + +So she took Logan’s pack, with what food she could get her hands upon, +and a pint bottle of paraffin, and Askival’s dirk; and she bullied +and wheedled Niven, on guard in the old tower; and to her immense +satisfaction, she had got Logan clean away. Jackman and his people had +no notion of the existence of that passage out of the cistern; Lady +MacAskival herself had not known of it. When she ran, Mary knew that +she left her aunt in danger, but Jackman’s fanatic voice behind the +study door convinced her she dared not delay; Jackman would act before +his time ran out altogether. And here she was, lying beside Hugh Logan +on the heather. + +Behind them hulked the northern heights where St. Merin’s Chapel stood. +They could hear a little waterfall tumbling, in that still night, from +the cliff-tops. The burn ran through the heather and bracken close +by them, lower down joining a stream that entered the sea by Askival +harbor. Now they must climb to their last forlorn refuge. First they +drank from the peaty burn; then Logan shouldered the rucksack, and up +they started. They hardly spoke in the course of that hard nocturnal +climb. + +From the summit, nearly an hour later, most of Carnglass was dimly +visible to them in the moonlight. They could make out specks of light +away to the southwest: lamps burning in the Old House. “Hugh,” Mary +said, laying a hand on his arm, “Carnglass is the oldest place in the +world, and the loveliest. Do you hate it? You’ve seen only fright and +death here. But it was Dr. Jackman that brought the terror. If--if we +live, Hugh, I’ll show you Carnglass as you ought to see it. Can you +forgive me for having drawn you into this terror?” + +“One crowded hour of glorious life,” Logan told her, “really is worth +an age without a name. And if I’d not come, I’d never have met Miss +Mary MacAskival, would I?” + +“No,” she said, with a little sob, “no. But we can’t loiter here.” She +took Askival’s dirk from the rucksack. “Hugh, take this, and cut some +branches off the trees around the chapel, as quickly as you can; and +I’ll scrape together some dead sticks and bits of dry heather; I made +a little pile of them here weeks ago, on the chance that I might need +to light them one day. We can burn the rucksack, too, and my jacket. +They’ll make no grand beacon, but we can do no more. The paraffin I +brought will start them blazing.” + +Logan stared at her. “Who’d see the fire, except Jackman’s boys?” + +“There’s a chance, Hugh. The night is clear. Besides, what other scheme +is there? And my people will come. They may not come soon enough, but +they will come.” + +“Your people?” The girl must be sunk in a Carnglass fantasy. + +“Hurry, Hugh,” was all she said. “It won’t be long before dawn.” + +They built their poor futile beacon, with what fuel they had on that +hilltop, and they poured the paraffin upon it, and they set it alight +with one of Logan’s matches, and they added to it the rucksack and +Mary’s tweed jacket and Hugh’s coat. It flared somewhat better than +Hugh had expected. But what possibility existed of this being seen by +any vessel passing in the night, or of being acted upon? And it was +almost certain that it would guide Jackman. + +“We’re only targets here,” Logan said. “At the chapel, we’d have some +shelter.” They climbed still higher on that cliff-plateau, until +they came to a low drystone dyke. Beyond it were tombstones, white +in the moonlight. This was Carnglass graveyard; and in the middle +of the graveyard stood a long, low medieval building, St. Merin’s +Chapel, battered by five centuries. Away to their right, a tall ruin, +infinitely older than the chapel, round, nearly forty feet high, +windowless and roofless, loomed at the brink of the cliff. + +On its rough stones flickered the light of their little impromptu +beacon. “They call that the Pict’s House,” said Mary, “or sometimes +the Firgower’s House.” The tower’s circular wall slanted slightly +inward, all round, for some twenty feet of its height; then it shot +perpendicularly to its summit. It was what was called a broch, a strong +place, Pictish work beyond question. “I do not think that really +the Pictish chief lived here,” Mary went on, “for that room and the +passages under the Old House have the look of his palace. The Picts +lived underground, you know. This was a watchtower, and a place of +refuge.” + +She turned toward the chapel. The firelight was reflected, between them +and the medieval building, upon a great Celtic cross, perhaps fifteen +feet high, carved with grotesques and convoluted interlacing bands; +and it leant heavily to one side. This was the Cross of Carnglass, +set up by the missionaries of St. Columba in the dim Irish age, St. +Merin’s Cross. Mary led Logan toward it; and, as they came close up, +she pulled from one of the stunted rowan trees which brooded over that +windswept graveyard a little twig, on which the first leaves of spring +had opened. She thrust it into the topmost buttonhole of Logan’s shirt. +“The rowan keeps off wraiths and evil spirits, Hugh,” she said, “and +St. Merin’s kirkyard is famous for them. Niven thinks I am the chief of +them. Look at me: am I a witch?” + +Mary MacAskival stood before the Cross of Carnglass, her red hair +brushing the white stone, her haughty nose and firm chin marking her as +the last of an old, old, fierce line: perhaps, truly, the descendant +of the Merin whose bones lay beneath one of these grass-grown grave +mounds. “If anyone could call spirits from the vasty deep, you could, +Mary,” Hugh told her. + +She smiled queerly. “It may be I will do just that, Hugh Logan. +But here, I’ll show you the chapel.” She took him through a Gothic +doorway--the wooden door, ajar, sagged on its hinges--and flashed +the torch-beam over the tombs within. A grotesque stone face, rudely +carved, stared at them from a niche. Directly before them stood up an +ornate modern tomb of marble. “Sir Alastair is beneath that. And here’s +his postbox.” She pointed to a slot in the marble, surrounded by a +carved funerary wreath; and she slid her hand into the opening. “Oh, +there’s nothing within now!” she said, as if really disappointed. “For +years, you know, my aunt used to send letters by the butler or footman +to Sir Alastair in his tomb. And I used to post my letters here, too, +when I wasn’t watched.” + +Post her letters there! Mary must have read the amazement on his face, +for she added, as if to reassure him of her sanity, “Oh, yes. The +letter I sent Duncan MacAskival, that brought you here, was posted +here in Sir Alastair’s postbox.” Was this some macabre witticism of +the uncanny little beauty, or a delusion grown out of dreams and +isolation? “But we daren’t linger here, Hugh. If Dr. Jackman sees our +fire, he’ll come up the cliff straight away.” She pointed to the old +dirk, which Hugh Logan had thrust into his belt. “That was Askival’s. +You must be my Askival, Hugh. I am Merin, you know: Merin of Carnglass, +who’s haunted this place since time began.” She was half playful, half +in earnest. The dirk, Logan thought, might be small use against the +guns of Jackman’s men, but it was some comfort. Then he followed Mary +MacAskival out of the silent chapel, and toward the towering broch by +the precipice. Their fire still leaped against the night sky of lonely +Carnglass, but in a few minutes only embers would remain. + +“The Pict’s House,” Mary was saying, “is the best place we can hide. +By the sea, away below these cliffs, is a great cave; but even I could +not lead you down the path to it in darkness; and besides, the tide is +coming in now, and the cave will be full almost to the top. It must be +the Pict’s House for us. One still can climb the stair to the top of +it.” She was quite calm, as if, having done all that she could do, she +abandoned herself to fate and fortune. “And from the Pict’s House, we +can see nearly all of Carnglass, once the sun is up.” + +They entered the tower through a square doorway ten feet above the +ground; a worn timber, sea-drift, propped against the wall just below +the door, made this scramble possible. The doorway was capped, by way +of lintel, by a great stone slab; the Picts had not known the arch. +Empty and roofless, the round interior cavern of the broch was before +them, but Mary turned into the wall itself: a circling stair led +upward, its steps vast rude slabs. By it they came to the crumbling +summit of the broch, and Logan observed, while they climbed, that no +mortar lay between the cunningly-placed stones of the tower; this was +the work of men in the dawn of history, and beside it the Old House +across the island was a thing of yesterday. + +Round the top of the broch ran a stone platform. “Stoop down behind +the parapet, Hugh,” the girl told him, “so Jackman won’t see us, if he +comes this way.” The earliest hint of a spring dawn glimmered in the +east; a corncrake fluttered up from the parapet. Right below them, the +tremendous cliffs, the cliffs over which Lagg had gone, fell sheer away +to the ocean. From this point, the last Pict chieftain may have watched +the long ships of the Vikings as they swept inexorably out of the +sea-mist to the north. On that sea, nothing was visible this morning +but whitecaps breaking on a submerged reef. + +“No, there’s nothing, no sail,” Mary MacAskival said anxiously, almost +as if she had expected one. “Do you know the tale of the fairy boat, +Hugh, that sails through the mists? If a girl glimpses it, she vanishes +before nightfall. I wish one could carry me off--and you. Now you see +my Carnglass, Hugh Logan.” + +He looked landward. Far to the west-southwest, beyond Cailleach, the +Old House stood grim on its rock; lower down, the New House, among its +plantations. Between them and the Old House stretched glen and hill, +heather and bracken, boulder and peat-bog, waterfall and burn. On this +lovely morning, the mists were quite gone, and there was revealed +to him the unearthly beauty of the forgotten island. The girl took +his arm. “Hugh, were it yours, would you live here always--or almost +always?” + +“That I would, Mary MacAskival.” Carnglass, for good or evil, set its +mark on men. + +She faced him squarely, putting her hands on his shoulders. “We may be +under that sea tonight, Hugh Logan. But if we are not, why shouldn’t +Carnglass be yours? I’ve known you but thirty-six hours, Hugh. You’re +all the man I need to know. Do you fear me? Some men do, though I’m so +little.” She kissed him then, and said, “Hugh Logan, I have kissed you +more times than I have kissed all other men in all my life. Do you mean +to ask me to marry you?” + +Torn between love and doubt, in that high place, Logan looked long +into her green eyes. “They would say, Mary, that I took advantage of a +lonely girl who had barely met me, for the sake of her money.” + +She tossed her bright hair at that. “Don’t be so canny, Hugh! Do you +know the MacAskival motto, over the door of the old tower? ‘They have +said and they will say; let them be saying.’ The MacAskivals, man or +woman, have no concern for what they say in Glasgow or Edinburgh or +London or all the wide world.” Then a look of fright came into her +flashing eyes. “Is it that you are married already, Hugh?” + +“No,” he said, “but I will be, if we get alive out of this.” And as the +sun rose, he took her in his arms. Rash, proud, and strange that girl +was, perhaps a little mad; but in that moment he loved her more than +all the kingdoms of the earth. + +She clung to him, sobbing and laughing softly in her moment of triumph +and surrender. But abruptly he thrust her back, and pulled her below +the level of the parapet. “Mary, Mary! They’ve come!” For three armed +men were climbing the slope toward the chapel, and Jackman was the +first of them. Logan thought that they two had not been seen. No shots +were fired, at least. + +His arm around the girl’s waist, he ventured a second glance between +two heavy stones that teetered precariously on the parapet’s brink. +Yes, Jackman and Anderson and Powert. The men got over a low wall that +ran round the graveyard, close by the remnants of the burned-out futile +beacon. Then they entered the chapel. + +“Mary, girl,” he whispered, “they’ll be on us in three or four minutes, +I think.” She did not cry, but kissed him once more, and then composed +her young face, as if the MacAskival ought to meet enemies without +flinching. + +“Hugh,” she said, “every second we can delay may help us.” He did not +see why, but she gave him no time to dissent. “Back down the stair, +Hugh, and if they try to come in, we’ll cast down the timber by the +door.” Yes, they could do that, though without guns they could do no +more than delay Jackman briefly. Back down the stair they went, and +crouched by the empty archaic doorway. It wouldn’t do to push away the +timber-gangplank that led up from the ground unless they must, for the +noise of its fall would bring Jackman and his men. + +Now they heard Jackman’s voice; he was coming right round the broch +from the chapel. Anderson’s sullen Gallowgate mutter replied to +Jackman. And in a moment the hunters stood just below the broch’s door, +though Logan dared not look out. “All right, Powert,” Jackman said, +“up with you.” At that, Logan and Mary MacAskival shoved against +the timber with all their strength. It slid sideways and fell to the +ground. They showed themselves for an instant as they pushed, and +someone fired, but the bullet passed over their heads into the broch. + +“Ah, well,” came Jackman’s voice from below, “you _did_ lead us a +chase, didn’t you? Anderson, Powert, take hold there.” The timber was +heaved back into place; Logan could not risk rising again to push it +off, for Jackman would have a gun trained on the doorway. “Powert, Mr. +Logan is not armed,” said Jackman. “Quick, now!” A man sprang up the +timber and through the door. + +Thrusting at him with the dirk, Logan got home to Powert’s upper arm, +and the man cried out and grappled with him. Before he could slash +Powert again, Jackman was up, and poked the little pistol Meg right +into Logan’s face. “Gallant, Logan, very gallant; but drop that.” Logan +flung down the dirk. Mary MacAskival was struggling in Anderson’s arms. +“A pleasant morning, eh, Logan?” Jackman said. “You’ll not see another.” + + + + +13 + + +They took Hugh Logan and Mary MacAskival out of the Pict’s House. +Anderson tied Logan’s wrists together, behind his back, with a length +of heavy cord, pulling the knots savagely tight. Jackman held the +girl by the arm meanwhile; and when Anderson had finished with Logan, +under Jackman’s instructions he tied a cord to Mary’s right wrist, and +retained the other end of the cord in his hand while Jackman removed +Powert’s jacket and bandaged the flesh-wound with a strip torn from the +tail of Powert’s shirt. This done, Jackman had Anderson tie the other +end of Mary’s cord to Jackman’s own left wrist. + +“There!” Jackman said, contentedly, “a brisk morning’s run, and no harm +done. Anderson, Powert and I will take this charming couple to the Old +House while you trot down the brae and call back Ferd and Niven; I +think they should be near the sheiling this side of Cailleach.” + +Anderson glowered at Logan. “Ye said I wud hae the thrashin’ o’ that +clot, Doctor.” + +“That you shall, Anderson, my man, that you shall--once we’re at the +Old House. I do believe Anderson will learn all we need to know from +you, Logan, in short order. Our treatment of you, Miss MacAskival, will +need to be rather more laborious: the washing of the brain, as our +Chinese friends say. But it will all come out in the wash, won’t it? +And Powert, too, will be given his fair turn at you, Logan: fair shares +for all, eh?” Jackman ran his tongue over his thin lips. “In one thing, +at least, you seem to have told me the truth, Logan: you’ve no people +in Carnglass, for you’d not have been cowering in that ruin if there +were any. There’s Carruthers to be accounted for; but I suppose he may +have missed his footing in the dark and have gone over the cliffs. I +must confess that my estimate of your abilities has diminished, Logan. +Whatever possessed you to light that fire here by the chapel? You might +have eluded us four or five hours longer if you hadn’t done that. Well, +drive him along, Powert.” + +With his unwounded arm, Powert gave Logan a fierce shove in the back, +setting him stumbling in the direction of the Old House; and Jackman +tugged on Mary’s cord, pulling her with him behind Logan and Powert. +The girl’s face was quite drained of color, but very haughty. “My +dear,” Jackman said to her, casually, “how changed you are going to be +within a few days! How very changed!” + +Then, from somewhere below in the nearer valley, there came to them the +crack of a rifle-shot. It was answered by another, apparently from a +different gun. Next was a burst of firing, and then a faint cry. + +Jackman’s satisfied smile altered horribly; he was Rumpelstiltskin +again. “Logan,” he muttered, “is there a man of yours in Carnglass, +after all? Or is that only Niven’s or Caggia’s nerves playing them +tricks? Anderson, you and I must go down to see. Powert, we’ll leave +you with Logan; he can’t do you harm. The girl will come with me. We’ll +send back a man to help you get Logan to the Old House, Powert.” + +Powert most obviously did not relish the plan. “Coom, Dr. Jackman, I’ve +a bad arm, and this cove’s a queer one.” + +“Nonsense,” Jackman said, “we’ll bind his feet, too, until we send +Anderson or someone else for you.” Away below, there was only silence, +but Jackman ran his hand across his forehead uneasily. “Here: we’ll put +him inside the chapel with you, and you can watch the door, with your +back to the wall: that’s safe enough.” Powert scowled, but shoved Logan +toward the door of St. Merin’s Chapel. Jackman herded the four of them +inside. + +Now that the dawn came through the broken tracery of the chapel’s +pointed windows, Logan could see that the single room contained seven +or eight tombs raised above the floor, some of them very old; and a +number of the flagstones, deeply incised by some rude stonecarver, +apparently covered other graves. “Wha’ in hell’s yon!” cried Anderson, +abruptly, pointing. + +Near the northeast corner of the room, one of the flagstones had +been raised, and now was leant against the wall. Where it had lain, +a little mound of earth, freshly dug, protruded above the floor; and +in the earth was thrust a curiously primitive wooden spade. The mound +was about six feet long. They all crowded close to it. An earthenware +dish had been set atop the mound, and the dish was filled with, of all +things, nails and what looked like salt. Across the dish lay a branch +from a rowan tree. “That,” Mary MacAskival said softly to Dr. Jackman, +“is how the spirits of the newly dead are laid in these islands.” + +“Wha’ fule’s been diggin’ graves?” Anderson growled, looking back over +his shoulder toward the empty doorway. + +Jackman stood rigid; then, “I think Carruthers must be under that clay. +Anderson, take the spade and uncover him.” Mary MacAskival shivered +slightly. + +Anderson cursed, but under Jackman’s hard eye he began to shovel. The +grave was very shallow. In a minute or two, a heavy shape could be made +out, wrapped in a big piece of tarred canvas. “That will be the head +at the far end,” Jackman whispered. “Powert, draw the canvas from the +face.” + +Mary had turned away, but Logan, dreadfully fascinated, saw clearly +the smashed and fallen face of a man he never had looked upon before. +And Jackman screamed: he screamed twice, and so terribly that his men +shook, for the screams were worse than the ruined face in the grave. +“Lagg! It’s Lagg!” + +Quivering, Anderson dropped the spade. “Aye,” he said, “Tam Lagg, that +we pit ower the cliff into the sea. For the love o’ God, Powert, cover +his mug.” + +Powert, his teeth chattering, let the canvas drop back over the corpse. + +“Logan,” shrieked Jackman, turning a frantic face on him, “Logan, what +are you? What are you? Do you make dead men rise from the sea? Was +it you that put this thing here?” He had the pistol in his hand, and +thrust it against Logan’s middle. + +He will fire now, Logan thought, for he’s quite out of his head. +There was the sound of a shot. But I’m not hit, Logan realized; I +feel nothing. Jackman sprang away and looked out the doorway; the +shot, after all, had come from outside, though in his tension Logan +had thought, for an instant, that Jackman had pulled the trigger. Yet +surely a gun had gone off fairly close at hand. + +“Anderson, watch this door,” Jackman ordered; he had a measure of +control over himself. “Powert, give me that rope.” He forced Logan +to sit, and tied his ankles together. “We’ll return for you in a few +minutes, Powert.” + +“Me? I’ll not sit here by the dead man.” Powert scarcely could hold his +rifle. + +Jackman sent him a deadly look from those glowering black eyes of his. +“You’ll be another dead man yourself, Powert, if I hear another word +from you. Now, Anderson, we’ll look into this. Miss MacAskival, if you +cry out, I’ll be forced to put a bullet through your head.” He shoved +her through the doorway. + +“Hugh,” Mary called back, reckless of Jackman, “Hugh, I love you!” Then +she and Jackman and Anderson were out of sight. + +Powert, left with Logan and the corpse, still shook; and he cursed +Logan and Jackman and Carnglass while he made his preparations as if +for siege. He pushed the helpless Logan roughly against Sir Alastair’s +tomb, facing away from the doorway, and parallel with the open grave +and the awful thing under the canvas. Then he pulled shut the sagging +door of the chapel, so that some force would be required to budge +it; and he himself leaned against a tombstone that came up to his +shoulders, with his face toward the door, and his rifle in his hands, +the barrel resting upon the head of another tombstone. So situated, +Powert could watch the door, keep an eye on Logan and the sheeted +thing, and have the comforting feel of stone at his back. + +Logan himself, after the repeated shocks of that fair morning, was in +little better state than Powert. Silent, he lay motionless against +the tomb of Sir Alastair MacAskival, his brain dull, dull, dull. +There were no more shots outside: only the rustle of a breeze in the +rowan trees. The stillness was a trying thing. Powert was mumbling to +himself: obscenities, blasphemies, scraps of nearly-forgotten prayer. +The sunlight was pouring into the chapel through the unglazed Gothic +windows. Five or six minutes passed thus. + +Then a faint sound came. Was something stirring in the high graveyard +grass, just outside the closed door? Did the door itself creak, as if +very gently tried? “Anderson,” Powert cried out, choking, “is it you, +man? Dr. Jackman?” Nothing answered. Did the door creak again, ever +so slightly, or was it the breeze? “Sing out,” Powert shouted, glaring +wild-eyed at the flimsy door, “or I’ll shoot!” + +High in the wall behind Powert was one of the pointed windows, its +stone tracery for the most part broken away. It must be at least eight +feet above the level of the graveyard. Though Logan could see this +window, Powert, intent on the doorway, could not. And as something rose +cautiously above the windowsill, from outside, Logan bit his lip to +keep back a cry. + +It was a man’s head that cut off the morning light: a lean man, +keen-eyed; and there was a long white beard on his chin; and there was +a little black knife between his teeth. His eyes took in the room. +Steadying himself by clutching the broken tracery with his left hand, +stealthily he rose until his shoulders came above the window-ledge. In +his brown right hand he held a large stone. + +As if someone had thrust tentatively against it, the rotten door +creaked shrilly. “Damn you,” Powert was crying, “speak up, or I’ll +shoot.” The white-bearded man outside the window drew back his arm and +flung the stone with great force, as if letting fly at a rabbit. The +rock caught Powert at the back of his head; he fell to his knees, the +rifle clattering on the flagstones. At that the door burst open, and +two men tumbled into the room, and were upon Powert before he could +recover. A boy followed them, and, kneeling by Logan, looked shyly into +his face. These were the two men and the boy, MacAskivals from Daldour, +that Logan had seen in Loch Boisdale, four days before. + +Then there strode through the doorway a very tall old man, erect and +vigorous and bearded to his chest, with a shotgun in his hand. He +was worth looking at; but another man, hard on his heels, was still +stranger. This was a burly, broad-shouldered fellow, with a heavy, +jolly face, and mild eyes that were exceedingly odd, though it would +have been difficult to say why. Something in the look of his face was +queer enough. Yet it was his clothing that made him conspicuous. The +other men wore the caps and canvas cloaks and rough homespun tweeds +of the crofters and fishermen in the remoter Isles. This burly man, +in strong contrast, was dressed in what seemed to be the garments +of a laird or prosperous farmer: green tweed jacket, green corduroy +breeches and long stockings, good heavy shoes. Under the open jacket +was a soiled yellow waistcoat; and on his head was a battered porkpie +hat. These clothes were in wretched repair, with dark stains here and +there upon them. The breeches, seemingly split at the seams, were +held together by pins. One sleeve of the jacket was ripped open from +shoulder to wrist. And although the clothes had been got on, they did +not fit the man who wore them. + +Resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, the tall old man bent over Logan +and spoke in Gaelic. Logan shook his head: “I know only English.” +Frowning, the old man muttered through his splendid beard to the boy +beside him. + +The boy stammered a little, as if overwhelmed with shyness; but there +was no fear in him. He spoke to Logan in good, if careful, English. +“Malcolm Mor MacAskival of Daldour asks what is your name, and what do +you do in Carnglass.” The pirate-like old man looked hard at Logan. + +These, then, were Mary MacAskival’s people! She had not been +woolgathering when she spoke of them. How she had summoned them, Hugh +Logan did not know; but the five of them--two had gagged Powert, and +were sitting on the man--were staring at Logan intently. This was no +time for long explanations. “Untie me,” Logan said. “I am Hugh Logan, +and I am to marry Miss Mary MacAskival.” + +There was a murmur from the men, and all five MacAskivals of Daldour +took off their caps deferentially, and then put them back on again. +With a fisherman’s deftness, old Malcolm Mor undid the cords about +Logan’s wrists and ankles, and the two men who looked like twins +promptly bound Powert with them. As he released Logan, Malcolm Mor +said, in decent English, “Then I am your man, sir, and so are my sons +and my grandson, and my nephew Angus, and my nephew Kenneth who is not +here. We saw the man with the third eye lead the lady away. Will we +go after her?” Malcolm Mor tapped his shotgun. Malcolm Mor’s two sons +had old rifles; the boy and Angus, the queer burly man in the queerer +clothes, were unarmed. One of the sons, almost bowing, handed Powert’s +rifle to Logan as he stood up and tried to get the blood to circulate +in his tingling wrists and ankles. + +Hugh Logan surveyed his little army. “Yes, we will,” he said, “if they +don’t come after us first. Just now they’re down in the valley hunting +someone; but some of them will come back to the chapel.” These men, +he thought, would be good shots; and to live in Daldour, they must be +hardy and probably courageous, though he doubted whether they had much +experience at man-killing. + +“It is my nephew Kenneth that they are hunting,” Malcolm Mor observed. +“I sent him to watch them from the bracken. It was Kenneth who shot his +gun to lead them away from the chapel. They will not find him. We have +watched them for a week, but we did not understand what they did, and +there was no gentleman to lead us. We would have shot the man with the +third eye when he took the lady away, but we were afraid that she might +be hurt. Is it so that they are robbers and murderers?” + +“That they are,” Logan said, emphatically. + +“Then,” Malcolm Mor went on, in the slow, gentle Island English, “it +would be lawful for us to hunt them?” Logan suspected that the people +of Daldour were extremely shy of the law. + +“It would,” Logan told him. “I am a lawyer, and I give you my +authority.” + +Malcolm Mor MacAskival’s old eyes lit up, and he smiled as some Norse +rover might have smiled. “Then, sir,” he said, “we will go after the +lady, and take the Old House of Fear.” He seemed to have no doubt +whatsoever of the success of this undertaking by five or six men and a +boy. “There are three more able-bodied men in Daldour, but we have no +time to fetch them. Kenneth, my nephew, will come to us soon. Will we +go down into the valley now, Mr. Logan?” + +“Let’s have a look about,” Logan said. The men followed him through the +chapel doorway. When Logan had thrown his rucksack on the fire, he had +stuffed his binoculars into a trouser-pocket; and now he pulled them +out and stared through them in the direction of the Old House; but, +what with hills, rocks, and clumps of trees and thickets of bracken, he +could see no one moving. + +Then, a hundred yards away, and ascending toward the chapel, Anderson +came into view. Logan dropped the binoculars and snatched up his rifle, +but Anderson had seen them before he could get the gun to his shoulder. +For a second, Anderson stared aghast; then, flinging himself around, +he leaped downhill, vanishing into bracken, reappearing on a knoll, +slipping, almost rolling down a talus-slope, merging with the blur of +gray rock and purple heather and green bracken. Logan fired twice, but +could not have hit him. At that, Malcolm Mor and his two sons brought +up their guns and fired also. They did not really take aim, and Logan +thought they meant to frighten, rather than to wound; but also he +thought that they could be brought to shoot to kill if they must. + +“We can catch him,” Malcolm Mor said, like a dog eager for the word +from his master. “He is a town man, and we are faster.” + +“No,” Logan decided, shaking his head, “no, there’ll be three others +down there, and they have Miss MacAskival with them, on a rope. We’ll +go down and after them, but together; and no one must shoot if the lady +might be hurt.” This deliberation was agony to Logan himself, but he +had been an officer, and he knew something of tactics. + +The MacAskivals nodded. “My nephew Kenneth will be watching them from +the bracken,” Malcolm Mor said. “We will go down, and he will join us; +and if they take the lady to the Old House, then we will follow them +into the house.” + +Malcolm Mor’s nephew Angus, the burly man in the dirty yellow +waistcoat, was nodding and smiling at every word his old uncle uttered. +“Do you have a gun?” Logan said to him. The man opened his mouth, but +words did not come out: only mouthed grunts, rather horrid. Malcolm Mor +seemed somewhat embarrassed. + +“He can not speak,” the boy--Malcolm Gille was his name--said +apologetically. “He is called”--here the boy seemed to seek the English +equivalent of a Gaelic term, and emerged triumphantly--“he is called +Dumb Angus.” Dumb Angus nodded enthusiastically at the mention of his +name. “And,” the boy went on, “he is simple. Dumb Angus is simple, and +does not have a gun, but he is very strong, and he is honest, and he +makes many jokes.” Dumb Angus bowed and smiled, and tapped himself on +the head to prove that he knew he was simple. “He cannot speak,” the +boy said, “but he makes jokes in other ways.” + +Logan checked Powert’s rifle, and reloaded; one of Malcolm’s +sons--their names, it turned out, were John and Robert--brought him +a cartridge-pouch that Powert had worn. What ought they to do with +Powert? Malcolm Mor, now assured that the majesty of the law sheltered +the persecuted sept of MacAskival, speculatively fingered the little +black knife in his belt. “No,” said Logan, “we’ll bring them all to +trial, if we can.” + +“There is one already taken and locked away,” Malcolm Mor offered. “His +name, I think, is Carruthers. We took him the night before last night, +and carried him to Daldour, and locked him in a byre, and he is afraid, +for he thinks that we will eat him. Dumb Angus made him think so; that +is one of the jokes of Dumb Angus. It is pleasant to have Dumb Angus +in Daldour. We could carry this man, too, to Daldour, but there is not +time.” + +Dumb Angus was gesturing and beckoning, and pointing upward. At the +east end of the chapel, behind the altar, ran a kind of low loft or +gallery, of wood, probably built when the chapel was re-roofed by Sir +Alastair MacAskival. “Yes,” said Logan, “that will do. Put Powert +there, at the back, and no one is likely to notice him until we need +him.” The sons of Malcolm carried Powert up the short flight of wooden +steps, and tightened the cords and his gag. Dumb Angus might be simple, +but he had eyes in his head. + +And now they could start in pursuit of Jackman, for Mary MacAskival’s +sake. Anderson probably would have warned Jackman and the others by +this time; but the warning might do no mischief, for those four guns +going off at his heels must have sounded to Anderson as if half the +constabulary of Scotland were after him. They could not catch Jackman +and the rest before they reached the Old House, the odds were, nor +would it have been safe to fire at the retreating gang with Mary +MacAskival in their midst. But by night, Logan was resolved, he and +the Daldour people would make their try. “Well, gentlemen,” he said to +Malcolm Mor and the others, “if you’re ready, I am.” And they started +down the brae. + +As they trotted and scrambled toward the valley, the boy running by +Logan’s side, Logan said to Malcolm Gille, “Why does Dumb Angus wear +such clothes?” + +“Those clothes were not his.” The boy smiled broadly. “It is one of the +jokes of Dumb Angus. They are the clothes of Mr. Lagg, the factor, that +we found broken below the cliffs and buried in the chapel of St. Merin. +For Dumb Angus, it is always Hallowe’en.” + +The humor of Daldour, Logan took it, had its grisly side. Dumb Angus it +must have been that Rab had encountered two nights before. If even the +simpletons of Daldour--and the whole band of Daldour MacAskivals was +a remarkably odd-looking lot--were this resourceful, it might be just +possible for Logan to get Mary alive out of the Old House. + + + + +14 + + +On the flank of Cailleach, a little ferret-like man rose out of the +heather to join Logan and the MacAskivals: Kenneth MacAskival. Like the +rest of his family, he really understood English, when he chose, and +could speak it tolerably well when he had to. On learning from Malcolm +Mor that this gentleman was the betrothed of The MacAskival, Kenneth +gave Logan his report. + +After firing twice that morning to draw Jackman away from the chapel, +Kenneth MacAskival had contented himself with creeping through the +bracken and spying on the retreating party. The lady, Kenneth said, +never spoke, so far as he could hear; though the men thrust her roughly +along when, led on a cord as she was, she stumbled. They would be at +the Old House within a few minutes, the man with the third eye and the +rest, and could not be intercepted. + +Logan and his men did not move toward the Old House so fast as they +could have. For Jackman might have laid an ambush, which had to be +watched for among the rocks and dens of rugged Carnglass. Once, through +his binoculars, Logan caught a glimpse of a hurrying figure, very close +to the Old House; then it was hidden again by a low intervening ridge. + +Either of two courses he might take, Logan thought. He might send +the MacAskivals in their lobster boat to Loch Boisdale or whatever +other port they could reach that had a police station, and ask for +prompt help. But this would take hours, many hours, and meanwhile +Jackman would have Mary MacAskival in the Old House. And Jackman would +be thinking of the ruin of his scheme, and of the gelignite in the +cellars. Besides, would any police constable believe such a story, from +such a crew as the MacAskivals, without telegraphing to Glasgow or +Edinburgh for orders, which would mean delays? No, that plan wouldn’t +do. + +So there remained to Logan only the storming of the Old House. Briefly, +he thought of trying to enter through the passage in the rock by which +Mary and he had escaped; but that was no go, since one of Jackman’s +riflemen at the cistern-mouth could kill anyone who tried to ascend. +They would have to rush the place from outside. + +The thing could not be tried until evening, for Jackman had more men +within the Old House than Logan had without, and Jackman’s men were +desperate, well armed, and probably experienced in killing. By day, +it would have been mad. The oldest tower, with its little windows and +iron bars, would have been impossible to take even if defended by only +one or two riflemen, unless the attackers had mortars. The Renaissance +block was nearly as strong. But the Victorian addition was another +matter. The gate was stout, and the ground-floor windows were small, +covered by iron grills, and shuttered within. The plate-glass windows +of the first floor, however, were immense and undefended, and could be +reached with a long ladder--after dark. Even supposing Logan and his +men got inside the Old House, they still would be outnumbered. Their +hope was that before they should make their rush, they might be able +to demolish the morale of Jackman’s people, already badly shaken. + +To help Mary, Logan would have taken any risk: if getting himself shot +would have saved her, he would have rushed the Old House that hour. +But the best chance for saving her, it seemed to him, lay in keeping +Jackman’s people very much on edge, and busy--and in praying that +Jackman himself might not go mad altogether. And this meant that some +eight hours, eight intolerable hours for Logan, must pass before he +could act. + +But meanwhile he could prepare. Giving the Old House a wide berth, he +led the MacAskivals to the farm steading nearest the castle. Before +the troubles had begun, Simmons had kept the steading in some order, +though there were only two animals about the place: two shaggy and +ill-tempered little Barra horses, grazing in a small field. Having +caught the horses, the MacAskivals harnessed them to a farm cart. +This they loaded with straw, and with what loose lumber they could +find; also they put two gallon tins of paraffin, discovered in the +farmhouse, into the cart. In a shed they came upon a long ladder, which +they piled atop straw and lumber. Then, keeping out of range of fire +from the Old House, Dumb Angus and Malcolm Gille took the horses and +cart circuitously round to the wooded policies of the New House, which +was as close to the Victorian wing of the Old House as they could get +without being fired upon. + +While this operation was going forward, Logan sent Kenneth and John +MacAskival to the rocky and bracken-covered hillsides that were barely +within extreme firing range of the Old House. And there the two +veteran poachers commenced a desultory fire against the windows of the +Old House. Logan gave Powert’s rifle to Kenneth, as the best weapon +available, taking Kenneth’s shotgun for himself. Concealed as they were +by dense bracken, and shifting position after every shot, there was +little danger of the MacAskivals being hit by retaliatory fire from +the Old House. For their part, the MacAskivals were instructed not +really to attempt to hit anyone, but to spend their time shattering +panes and nerves. The windows of Mary’s room in the old tower they +left untouched. Lady MacAskival’s room was on the seaward side of the +Old House, and so safe. For that matter, the whole garrison of the Old +House could retreat to the seaward rooms and temporary security, except +for what luckless sentinels Dr. Jackman might leave to guard against a +sudden rush. By early afternoon, every pane on the eastern side of the +Old House had been shattered, except those in Mary MacAskival’s windows. + +For the first hour of this, three or four marksmen replied from the +Old House. But they could have seen almost nothing to shoot at, and +their risk of being struck by flying windowglass, if not by bullets, +was considerable. The return fire slackened perceptibly in the second +hour, and after that there came only infrequent shots from a single +rifle on the second floor, as if to demonstrate that the defenders were +still awake. Another rifleman on the roof of the old tower was driven +below early in the game. What all this did to the nerves of Jackman’s +men--this sniping by an unknown body of enemies, who had not even made +a formal demand for the surrender of the Old House--Logan could only +surmise. The loss of Powert, too, coming on the heels of Carruthers’ +disappearance and the discovery of Lagg’s body, must have made an +impression. + +Logan sent Robert MacAskival round to keep an eye on the back of the +old tower, to make sure no one slipped out by the garden gate; the +man hid himself behind an outcrop of rock and bided his time, leaving +the shooting to the others. Accompanied by Malcolm Mor, Logan himself +watched the main entrance from the plantation that stretched from the +New House nearly to the rock of the Old House. And from Malcolm Mor, as +they lay on their bellies under cover, that warm and fatal spring day, +Logan pieced together a good deal more of the history of the recent +troubles in Carnglass. + + * * * * * + +Poaching in Carnglass the shy twilight folk of Daldour took for a +natural right. The older people of the Daldour MacAskivals, like +Malcolm Mor, had been born in Carnglass and looked upon it as Eden; +several of them, from time to time, right down to the coming of Dr. +Jackman as Lady MacAskivals guest and master, had been servants at the +Old House or on the two farms. Life in that windswept peat-bog Daldour +was precarious at best, and the dwindling race of the MacAskival +crofters and fisherfolk had considered the killing of a sheep or a +deer in Carnglass as no more than getting back a bit of their lost +patrimony. That the sheep and the deer nominally belonged to old Lady +MacAskival was little to them: she was a mere Lowlander, a MacAskival +only by marriage--a bad marriage at that--and their enemy. + +So whenever they dared--especially in the early morning or the evening, +when the gamekeepers might be in their cottages--the Daldour men, for +years, had landed in Carnglass under cover of darkness or fog, most +commonly mooring their lobster-boats in a great cave under the headland +on which St. Merin’s Chapel stood. The cave was known to very few; +and though the ascent was precarious even for MacAskivals, still the +descent was so risky as to daunt even the boldest hired gamekeeper, +most of the time. + +And it seemed that the taking ways of the Daldour MacAskivals, in +recent years, had been winked at by The MacAskival herself, Miss Mary. +For she had been a little girl on a barren island croft, and knew the +rigors of the Daldour life. Besides, she was adored by, and adored, old +Malcolm Mor, the chief man in Daldour, who for some years turned from +fishing and poaching to being the gardener at the Old House, until Lagg +gave him the sack. Malcolm Mor told her tales of the vanished glories +of the MacAskivals, and of the witcheries of Carnglass, and showed the +schoolgirl, during her Carnglass summers, the secrets of the Old House +and of the Carnglass caves. What Malcolm Mor’s kith and kin did, Mary +MacAskival overlooked when overlooking was discreet. Now and again, +on lonely rambles to the further reaches of the deserted island, Mary +would meet with the furtive deer-stalkers and sheep-stealers from +Daldour, who blended with gorse and heather and bracken when anyone +else showed his face; and they would tip their caps, and offer the girl +strange things washed up from the sea, such as “Mary’s Nut,” a Molucca +bean, come by the Gulf Stream all the way from the Caribbean--for it +brought good fortune, if worn on a chain round the neck. + +As for Malcolm Mor, even after canny and tight-fisted Tam Lagg +discharged the old pirate, Mary MacAskival kept in touch with him by a +sepulchral line of communications. Their system was this: on her walks, +Mary would slip a note into the receptacle in Sir Alastair’s tomb at +the chapel, and Malcolm would pick it up when next he climbed over the +cliff-head from his boat moored in the cave far below. Malcolm Mor, +though he was ashamed of the accomplishment as a decadent concession +to modern civilization, could write a primitive English, and he +would scrawl in his crabbed hand brief and respectful replies to The +MacAskival’s communications, giving news of his family to the lonely +girl, and of how the fishing had gone. So long as she was permitted to +ramble at will in Carnglass, Mary MacAskival could send letters to the +outer world through this tomb postbox, for old Duncan would post them +in Loch Boisdale on the few occasions when the lobster boat crossed the +rough waters to South Uist. Thus she had contrived to send her last +message, the unsigned note, crumpled and water-stained, which reached +Duncan MacAskival in Michigan. After that she had been too closely +watched by Jackman and his men to make the attempt, and toward the end +she had not been able to leave the Old House at all. + +Before the coming of Jackman, and while Lady MacAskival retained some +vigor and Lagg had the management of the island in his hands, two or +three reasonably zealous gamekeepers made the poaching by the Daldour +men a career of danger and daring, which they dared not attempt more +than once a month, at best. The keepers’ shotguns had wounded two or +three of old Malcolm’s sons and grandsons, and once the keepers almost +had seized the boat moored in the cave. + +But after Jackman’s men replaced the old servants, the people at +the Old House scarcely visited the hinterland of Carnglass. Donley, +nominally the new keeper, ordinarily stuck fairly close to his cottage +near the Old House, and the regions round Dalcruach and St. Merin’s +Chapel, especially, became safe ground for the poachers. More and +more of the queer, long-legged, long-necked, soft-fleeced sheep of +Carnglass, and now and then a deer, were borne off triumphantly in the +lobster boat to hungry Daldour. + +Only one aspect of the new regime in Carnglass troubled the Daldour +MacAskivals: Dr. Jackman and his ways. They spied upon him from the +bracken, and sometimes crept close enough to perceive the curious +spot in his forehead--which, among these misty folk who told legends +over their peat fires and never saw the penny press and never heard +a wireless, was at once recognized as the supernatural Third Eye of +a Carnglass warlock. They saw the rough crew of town toughs he had +gathered round him, too, and their suspicions grew. And Mary MacAskival +rarely came forth from the Old House; at last she did not come at all, +though they could glimpse her sometimes at the summit of the tower +or in the little walled garden. For the people of Daldour, Miss Mary +MacAskival was the symbol of their identity, and the hope of their +salvation: for she had told old Malcolm, more than once that, when she +was mistress in the island, she would bring back the MacAskivals to +the farms and the crofts from which her aunt had expelled the last of +them in 1914. The man with the third eye, they told one another, meant +Mary MacAskival no good. They continued to watch. None of them were +cowards, but they were shy of the law, for the law had expelled them +from Carnglass; and besides, they were poachers, and in Daldour secret +distillers of whiskey on which they paid no duty. + +There were not many of them in Daldour, and few of the men were +young. Of the men who should have been in their thirties, several had +died during the war as naval or merchant seamen; and nearly all the +rest, acquiring new tastes during their military service or unable to +find places for themselves in the island, had gone off to Glasgow or +America. The old and middle-aged MacAskival men in Daldour, for lack of +young blood, withdrew more and more from the modern world, so far as +modernity ever had touched them at all. They were shy of the law, shy +of people from the mainland, shy of townsfolk, shy even of crofters and +fishermen from the other islands. + +A week ago, four MacAskivals, Malcolm Mor leading them, had put out in +their boat, cloaked by fog and the setting of the sun, to land again at +the foot of the cliffs below St. Merin’s Chapel. Only the MacAskivals +of Daldour could sail those treacherous waters in such weather. As +they had been about to moor the boat in the cave under the cliff, Dumb +Angus had taken Malcolm by the shoulder and pointed excitedly. Caught +between two rocks near the cave’s mouth, and awash in the ebbing tide, +was the body of a man. They drew the corpse into their boat. It was Tam +Lagg, who had been factor of Carnglass, and his corpse was terribly +battered; he must have fallen from the cliffs. His hat they found a +little later, lodged in a clump of ferns a few yards up the cliff. + +“The sea casts its dead upon Carnglass,” a proverb of the Islands runs. +Many men have drowned on the reefs in those waters, or have been caught +in the currents and hurled against the cliffs in their boats; but it +is a strange truth that the whirlpools and eddies in that merciless +sea seem to bring up drowned men from miles round, and lodge what is +left of them among the rocks or on the narrow beaches of the island +called the Heap of Stones. The four men in the Daldour lobster boat +had looked often upon drowned corpses; and they never failed to give +those derelicts decent burial, that they themselves might one day need +in their turn. The graveyard round the chapel in Carnglass, and the +smaller graveyard by the bare beach in Daldour, were dotted with little +wooden crosses marking the graves of seamen and soldiers from torpedoed +transports that had gone down between Uist and Carnglass. + +Bury Tam Lagg, then, the MacAskivals must. But they were afraid of +the man with the third eye, at the Old House of Fear, who might lay +the blame of this strange death upon them, since they had enjoyed an +old vendetta with the factor of Carnglass; so they made no attempt to +report the discovery of the body to the people in the Old House. They +thought it best not to bury Lagg in Daldour, lest the body be found by +strangers there and the MacAskivals be accused of foul play. So they +wrapped Lagg in an old piece of canvas and, with great difficulty, got +the body to the top of the cliffs, where they buried it in St. Merin’s +Chapel. On the grave they left a saucer of salt and nails, with a +rowan twig atop it, to keep Lagg’s wraith from wandering, should it be +restless; for they thought it strange that a man so long familiar with +Carnglass should fall to his death. + +They were not sorry that Lagg was dead: they had detested him. And Dumb +Angus, who dug the grave, took Lagg’s clothes by way of compensation, +and put them on, so that he looked for all the world like a stout +scarecrow in those torn and stained garments. Malcolm Mor feared that +this act might bring ill luck, but did not interfere, for they were +accustomed to let poor Angus have his way in all reasonable things. And +besides, Angus looked wonderfully comic in Lagg’s clothes, and made the +MacAskivals laugh, and so was happy. Many of the jokes of Dumb Angus +were no stranger than this. + +Logan learned these matters from Malcolm Mor there on the edge of the +New House plantation of firs and aspens, while every ten minutes or +so a rifle went off on the landward side of the Old House; Kenneth +and John firing at the windows. Logan’s men had no great supply of +ammunition, but it was necessary to keep Jackman’s people in constant +uneasiness, so that the final rush on the Old House might have some +chance for success. As Logan and Malcolm lay talking, Dumb Angus +crawled up to join them, having finished his work of loading the farm +cart and getting it into the New House plantations. + +“Dumb Angus is simple,” Malcolm Mor said, smiling at the burly man, +“but also he is clever. He made the joke better by a doing all his own. +Show Mr. Logan what it was you made, Angus.” + +Very cheerfully, Angus took off the injured green porkpie hat he had +inherited from Thomas Lagg. Then he reached into a little leather bag +that hung suspended from one of his shoulders, and drew out a thing +seemingly shapeless. He pulled the thing all the way over his head, +as if it had been a rubber mask, and clapped his hat back on. Then, +gobbling unintelligibly, he looked Logan full in the face. + +The effect was the more horrid because at first Logan could not +recognize the origin of this dreadful mask Dumb Angus had assumed. It +was not human, and yet had a semblance of humanity. It hung loosely on +the head. It had nostrils, but no true nose, and a drooping dreadful +mouth, and holes where its eye-sockets should be, with Dumb Angus’s +eyes glowing behind them. Angus wriggled with happiness at the effect +he produced upon Logan. It was the face of one of the peculiar sheep of +Carnglass, painstakingly skinned from the whole skull of the beast and +made a loathsome mask by Angus MacAskival. + +If this was what Rab had seen in the gloaming, with the dead Lagg’s +clothing on the heavy body below it, it was no wonder that dull-witted +Rab had gone frantic with dread. “Poor Angus makes this on every +Hallowe’en,” Malcolm Mor was saying, “but this time he made it in the +spring, because he had taken Mr. Lagg’s clothes, and wished to make us +laugh.” + +On the same evening that the MacAskivals buried Lagg, they had caught +a glimpse of Donley skulking among boulders near Dalcruach, and they +had hurried back to their boat and returned to Daldour, thinking that +Donley might have seen them as well. But they had found they could +not restrain their curiosity, and so sailed to Carnglass early the +following morning, and from the bracken had seen Donley pursued by +men from the Old House. They had debated among themselves whether +they ought to reveal themselves to Donley and carry him off safely to +Daldour; but they did not know the right and wrong of the feud between +Donley and his pursuers, and also they had an ancient grudge against +all gamekeepers; so they let the chase continue, only watching it from +a fairly safe distance. Two or three times both Donley and the men +from the Old House seemed to suspect that they were being tracked and +watched, and to be correspondingly nervous. This tickled the fancy +of the MacAskivals, especially Dumb Angus, and, without showing +themselves distinctly, they dogged the Carnglass men like bogles. + +These MacAskivals had seen Donley and Logan together on the shore, the +night Donley had taken the dinghy. They had watched Logan for a part +of the way as he followed the line of cliffs to the Old House. They +had lingered near the searching parties that went out of the Old House +in pursuit of Donley while Logan had been inside. And on one of these +occasions, three of the MacAskivals--Robert, John, and Dumb Angus--had +been imprudent. Carruthers and Rab, cautiously poking through the +bracken near the ruined farmhouse where Lagg had been caught, had +stumbled upon the Daldour men. Carruthers, in the lead a few yards, +had found himself right in the midst of the three MacAskivals, and +had shouted in astonishment to Rab. Instantly, Malcolm’s two sons had +dragged him down and begun to bind him, snatching away his gun; they +were old hands at such fights with keepers. Rab had come running up, +and Dumb Angus, wearing his sheep-mask and Lagg’s clothes, had risen +out of the bracken to confront him. Turning tail, the shocked and +screaming Rab had run all the way back to the Old House, now and then +firing into the bracken, but never hitting the delighted Angus, who had +followed at a prudent distance. Logan knew the rest. + +By this time, Malcolm Mor had become convinced that something was +gravely wrong at the Old House, and was bent on helping Mary MacAskival +if only he could determine what to do. He and the others took +Carruthers back to Daldour in their boat, at the risk of a prosecution +for kidnapping, and locked him in a byre, where they fed him well and +asked him questions quite civilly; but the man was so terror-stricken +that they could get nothing sensible from him. The day after the +capture, the MacAskivals spent in Daldour asking these fruitless +questions of their prisoner. Three hours before dawn on the present +day, they had sailed once more toward Carnglass, with the intention of +going straight up to the Old House, if necessary, and demanding to see +Miss MacAskival. + +Then, when almost under the northern headland of Carnglass, the +MacAskivals had seen flaming against the night sky the fire which Logan +and the girl had kindled. That beacon must be close by St. Merin’s +Chapel; and at the chapel Malcolm Mor had collected Mary MacAskival’s +letters, and the Cross of Carnglass had been the point of rendezvous +when Malcolm, now and then, had met with the girl face to face. The +odds were that this fire was a sign from Mary herself. Mooring the +boat, the MacAskivals went warily up the cliff, reaching the summit +just after dawn. + +All the time, then, Logan realized, the girl must have entertained hope +of the MacAskivals’ coming. Why she had given him only hints, never +speaking out, he could not say. In part, perhaps, she had hesitated to +speak because she feared that, after all, nothing would come of this. +And in part, likely enough, her pride as The MacAskival had prompted +her to make the decision herself, without consulting even the man she +loved. But most of all, Logan suspected, a certain lingering schoolgirl +love of secrets had been at work. From the time Carruthers was missed +and Rab ran shrieking into the Old House, Mary MacAskival must have +been sure that the MacAskivals of Daldour were in the island. Her only +chance of finding them hurriedly if they were in the island the next +night, or of attracting their attention away in Daldour or out at sea, +was to light the beacon, whatever the risk of attracting Jackman’s +notice. That act had saved Logan, but not yet Mary herself. + +Well, Malcolm Mor and the others had got their heads over the summit +of the sea-cliff just as Logan had been fighting with Jackman and his +men at the door of the broch. The men of Daldour had crouched behind +the tumbling drystone wall at the brink of the cliff, unnoticed by +Jackman’s gang during the scuffle. In that moment, Malcolm had sent +his nephew Kenneth scurrying stealthily round the kirkyard wall and +down the brae, to create a diversion. And Kenneth, seeing two more of +Jackman’s men in the valley below, had fired on them to draw Jackman’s +party off at the time Logan and Mary MacAskival were held prisoners +in the graveyard and the chapel. When Malcolm had watched the girl +led away on a rope, he was ready to fight, law or no law. So he and +the others had surrounded St. Merin’s Chapel, stunned Powert, and +discovered, to their astonishment, the betrothed of Mary MacAskival. + +“Mr. Logan,” said old Malcolm Mor, apparently quite confident of the +issue of the fight that was coming, “when Carnglass is the lady’s and +yours to do with as you will, Dumb Angus would be a good gardener for +you. It is a keeper that I myself would rather be. Dumb Angus is wise +with animals and plants”--here he patted Angus approvingly on a burly +shoulder--“and he would keep you always laughing.” + +Dumb Angus had put the animal-mask back into his bag. He also had +slung over his shoulder, on a strap, the wooden spade that Logan had +seen thrust into the earth in the chapel; Angus had forgotten it there +when he dug Lagg’s grave, but now had retrieved it as the only weapon +ready to his hand. The wearing of such masks, Malcolm had remarked, +was common among the few remaining MacAskival children, in Daldour and +formerly in Carnglass, about Hallowe’en. Covered by that dead animal +face, Angus had looked mightily like the picture of the Firgower on the +ceiling of Jackman’s study in the old tower. Whether this custom was +some dim survival of a practice older than the Christian rites at the +Cross of Carnglass, Logan could not tell. It might have been that the +dead Pictish chiefs of Carnglass had worn such masks in heathen times, +at ceremonies in the chamber within the rock beneath the Old House, or +by the great broch on the cliff, the Pict’s House. Be this as it might, +the horrid false face that was Angus’s delight, like so much else in +Carnglass and Daldour, came as the last faint echo of an old Gaelic +song. + + * * * * * + +All that long afternoon Logan lay in wait hidden by the fir trees, +outwardly calm to hearten the MacAskivals, inwardly in torment at Mary +MacAskival’s danger within the Old House. As the sun began to set, he +dispatched the boy to Kenneth and John, still sniping on the landward +side of the Old House, with the word that they were to join him under +the trees close to the gate of the Victorian block, the moment it was +fairly dark. + +When the light was almost gone, Malcolm and Angus harnessed the +Barra horses--which had been tethered behind the New House--to the +straw-loaded farm cart. The long ladder was carried to the edge of the +plantation; the run with it to the first-story windows of the Victorian +wing would be very risky, even if Logan’s whole plan went smoothly, but +the thing was possible. Climbing up the straw, the boy poured the tins +of paraffin over the loaded cart. Angus crept under the cart, to urge +on the horses so far as they dared use them. Kenneth, John, and Robert +were to be stationed behind the cart. When the cart had been drawn to +the edge of the trees, the horses must be cut out of their harness, and +the men, keeping their heads down, must push the cart the remaining +distance across naked rock to the gate of the Old House. + +Malcolm Mor, Malcolm Gille, and Logan himself took position at the +edge of the trees, prone, with guns ready to fire into the windows +above the gate. These movements seem to have attracted attention from +whomever was on duty at those windows, for one shot was fired from the +Old House. But Logan’s men did not reply, and as the dark descended, +the great gray bulk of the castle of the MacAskivals lay still and +ominous, with not one light showing. Now, Mary, Hugh Logan thought, +I’ll go to you. The MacAskivals beside him knew what they had to do, +and none of them had shown much sign of fear. + +The cart would be set afire against the gate, and Logan and the two +Malcolms would blaze away at the adjacent windows, as if the assault +were to come there. That was, after all, a venerable Highland and +Island military device, especially beloved by Rob Roy; and though if +the cart burned well it might char through the gate, there was no +danger of the great house, which was all stone, catching fire. But +Logan did not intend really to rush the gate. The true attack would be +on the flank, around the corner: while the attention of the defenders +was concentrated on the gate, Logan and his men would carry the ladder +to the windows of the landward side and break in, if they could. And +then, presumably, there would be shooting within the house; and the +odds were not in Logan’s favor. But this was the best he could do. It +was all he could do for Mary MacAskival, and it might be too late. + +Now the cart had been pulled by the horses to the edge of the trees. +Someone inside the house must have heard the jingle of harness and the +whinnying of horses, for a shot fired at a venture passed through the +branches above their heads. “Now, Kenneth MacAskival, Angus!” Logan +said. They cut the horses out of the harness, and four men commenced, +shoving with all their strength, to run with the cart across the little +plateau of rock to the door of the Old House. As yet, the straw was not +alight, for they would need the advantage of darkness so long as they +could keep it. + +Into the quiet night came a hoarse shout of alarm from the house: +Royall’s voice, Logan thought in that instant. Two rifles fired at the +cart, and then a third. Logan and his companions fired as fast as they +could into the windows above the gate, and Logan heard a man scream. +Still the cart ran on, and then crashed into the gate itself. The +riflemen in the house were firing straight down into the cart now, and +three of the MacAskivals ran out from behind it, leaping and rolling +for the shelter of the trees; Logan and the Malcolms covered them with +the best barrage they could contrive. That left Dumb Angus under the +cart. + +Logan had given Angus careful instructions, through Malcolm Mor. Angus +had been handed a length of charred rope, and a supply of matches. +Crouching under the cart, he was to light the frayed rope, throw it +into the straw, and run for it. For Angus was very quick of body. Now +Logan saw a tiny flame spring up beneath the cart; it grew; still Angus +lingered. Next a flaming coil was flung upon the dry straw, which +caught. Two or three minutes passed, the firing from the house--were +there only two rifles now?--sporadic. Then a mass of flame roared up +from the cart, kindling the lumber among the straw also, and the light +from it shown fiercely across the empty windows of the façade. Angus +scooted from under the cart and down across the rock, Logan and the +others firing to cover him; but there was no answer from the windows by +the gate. + +Now for the worst part. John MacAskival was useless, shot in one arm, +and dazed with shock; Logan flung his gun to the boy, telling him to +fire at will, for three minutes, into the windows by the gate; the boy +was utterly delighted. The rest of them, seizing the ladder, swung out +of the plantation toward the right, veered round the corner of the +Victorian block, and set the ladder against a first-story window, +Angus holding it firm at the bottom. Someone fired a shot from above +them, but no one seemed to be hit. + +Logan leaped up, the others behind him, and in two seconds was smashing +out of the window-frame the shattered remnants of the plate glass, +using his gun-butt, and expecting any moment to get a bullet in his +chest. But the room within was silent. He flung himself into that room, +and the four MacAskivals were at his heels. And now, indeed, there were +gunshots; but they came from deep within the house, and no one opposed +Logan as they burst into the corridor. + + + + +15 + + +Someone yelled in the corridor as Logan entered. But it was only a +little paper-white man, dragging a rifle feebly as if it were a ball +and chain: Tompkins. At sight of Logan, the butler dropped the rifle +altogether, falling to his knees, and cried, “O Gawd! Mr. Logan, sir, +don’t ’urt me, don’t! I’m your slaive, Mr. Logan! O Gawd, Jackman’s +mad, and they’re murderin’ heach hother below stairs.” + +Clutching at Logan’s legs, Tompkins babbled on as to how he was only +an honest butler and part-time burglar, unaccustomed to killing. Logan +jerked him to his feet and forced him in the direction of the gunfire +within the house. “In the billiard room, Mr. Logan, sir!” + +Urging Tompkins before them, Logan and the MacAskivals ran to the end +of the passage, rounded the corner to the left, and came to the door +of the billiard room. Dead or dying, Royall lay face down across the +threshold. Reckless, Logan strode over him. The big room, with its +long windows looking toward the harbor, had three more men in it. One +was Anderson, shot through the belly, writhing with his back against a +leg of the billiard table. One was Rab, sprawled in the middle of the +red Victorian carpet, a bullet hole between his eyes. The third was a +man Logan had not seen before, lying on a sofa, his eyes bandaged, +sightless, moaning in fear--Till, of course, the burned boatman. Where +was Jackman? Two or three more shots, in quick succession, sounded +within the house, somewhere below. + +“Tompkins, tell me where Jackman’s gone, or I’ll finish you,” Logan +said. The butler, stammering and choking, could only point toward the +cellars below. Malcolm Mor ran in. + +“In the room above the gate,” Malcolm said--he slipped here into +Gaelic, and with difficulty found his English again--“there is a +man with long hair, like a gypsy, and he has been shot through the +shoulder, and can do no harm.” That would be Niven; and that left +Jackman and Simmons and Ferd Caggia. And Mary, Mary. + +“Tompkins,” Logan said, taking the man by the throat, “show me where +the crypt with the explosives is.” The butler reeled in Logan’s grip +along the passage, and down a flight of stairs, and then pointed to an +open doorway, from which stone steps led into shadows. Angus was behind +Logan; the other MacAskivals were poking into the rooms. + +Releasing Tompkins, Logan went down those steps to a little landing, +and started to turn to the remaining flight that would take him to the +crypt. A rifle cracked, and the bullet ricocheted from the wall. Logan +flung himself back, nearly upsetting Angus. + +“Jackman,” Logan called down, “drop your gun and come up, and I’ll +promise you a trial. Otherwise we’ll promise nothing.” + +But it was not Jackman that answered from the crypt. “Ah! Meester +Logan, that is you?” The voice was rather faint. + +“Who’s there?” + +“Fernando Caggia, your fren’. Meester Logan, you owe me a pardon for +what I do.” + +“Drop your gun, Caggia, and come up.” + +A rifle was flung to the foot of the stairs. “Meester Logan, I can not +come up, for Dr. Jackman, he shoot me twice. But I save you.” + +Logan leaped down those stairs. A barricade of boxes and chairs stood +before a little iron door, and between door and barricade lay Caggia, +covered with blood. “In this room,” Caggia said, trying to grin, “is +the gelignite. Dr. Jackman, he try to reach it, but I, Fernando Caggia, +do not let him. He shoot, I shoot, he shoot. I hit him once.” + +“Where is he?” + +Caggia gave a weak shrug. “One minute ago, he runs.” + +Leaving Angus to watch the iron door, Logan dashed back up the stairs, +and at the top Malcolm met him. “We can not find that man,” Malcolm +said. “Will he be in the old tower?” + +“Mary?” + +“The door of the room of Lady MacAskival is locked, but there are +people inside.” + +Now the boy had joined them, and as they ran into the Renaissance +building, Kenneth and Robert came out of a passage and followed. They +were at the door of the room which was hung with Spanish leather. Logan +tried the knob fiercely; it would not turn. He smashed at the door with +his rifle-butt, using all the strength that was in him, and it burst +inward. Someone leaped for him. “Hugh, Hugh!” Before them all, Mary +MacAskival covered him with kisses. + + * * * * * + +Later, from Mary and Tompkins and Till, Logan got an understanding of +what had passed within the Old House since morning. Wild with fury and +bewilderment, Jackman had dragged her back to the Old House from the +chapel, the three men with him as much afraid of their master as of the +shadowy armed men whom Anderson had seen before the chapel. According +to Anderson, there were twelve or fifteen of them, armed to the teeth. +At the moment of his triumph, of his taking of Logan, suddenly Jackman +had been undone. There was no way out. + +Like a man in the grip of nightmare, Jackman scarcely could speak. +For a few moments, just after they had got back within the shelter +of the Old House, a flash of his old power returned to him. Seeing +Jackman bemused, Anderson and Rab and Caggia and Simmons made for the +girl: they would beat out of her the truth about those armed men by +the chapel. But turning on them, “like Rumpelstiltskin again,” Jackman +broke that mutiny, and hurried Mary MacAskival through the passages to +her aunt’s room. Thrusting her inside, he gave her a long look. “Well,” +Jackman said, passing his hand across his forehead, “I wish I had known +you long ago. Now you are going to die. We all are about to die.” He +went out, locking the door behind him. + +All that day, Mary knelt praying in the room hung with Spanish leather. +Lady MacAskival, wasted beyond belief, lay motionless in her big bed, +not seeming to hear the bullets striking the walls in the rooms across +the gallery. Old Agnes sobbed in a corner. From the windows of this +room, Mary could see only the harbor, with the burned yacht, and the +empty sea beyond. And she prayed for Hugh Logan and for Carnglass. + +It was Tompkins who told Logan much of what followed. Jackman, +uncertain in movements and speech, as if half paralyzed, stationed +Anderson, Rab, and Caggia in rooms on the landward side of the Old +House, to reply to the sniping from the bracken. Simmons he put into +the study, guarding the door of the old tower. He ordered Niven and +Tompkins to duty in the rooms above the gate. For a time he went +himself to the roof of the old tower and fired at the riflemen slinking +among the distant rocks and heather and bracken; but all this was +done as if he were sleep-walking. Then he went down to the billiard +room, which was safe from gunfire, and sat at a table with his head +in his hands. Royall tried to talk with him, but Jackman would not +reply. Thereafter Royall conducted the defense, so far as there was any +organized resistance. + +Caggia, who had gone below stairs to get the men food, did not +reappear. Rab and Anderson, driven from the landward rooms by the +sniping, got at the rum. They drank it in the billiard room where +Jackman sat, and cursed at Jackman, and Jackman did not answer. And the +hours passed. + +Royall, left alone in the landward rooms, had his cheek laid open by +a splinter of glass, but he kept on firing. When the sniping ceased +on that side, he went to the billiard room and again tried to rouse +Jackman. At gun-point, Royall ordered Rab up to the room over the +gate, to reinforce Niven and Tompkins. Anderson went below stairs, +and Tompkins heard him crying defiantly to Royall--something about +explosives. + +When the attack on the gate came, and the cart was burning under the +windows, Niven was hit by a bullet. In panic, Rab fled to the billiard +room, screaming out, “The hoose! They’re burnin’ a’ the hoose!” Royall +and Anderson hurried in. This was told to Logan by the blinded boatman +Till, who had lain helpless during the billiard-room fight. + +“O aye, we’re done!” Anderson roared. “Gie it ower, Jackman, we’ve had +it!” + +Then Jackman rose from his chair. “Royall,” Jackman said, “keep the men +here.” + +“Gude God,” Till heard Anderson say, “the auld de’il’s for the +explosives! Jackman, damn ye, dinna open that door.” + +“Rab,” cried Royall, “drop your gun.” Shooting began then, Till +cowering on the sofa. There must have been four or five shots, and +after them running steps. Till could hear Anderson groaning and +cursing. After that, Logan and his men came. + +Edmund Jackman had made for the cellars and the gelignite. Down there, +Ferd Caggia crouched behind a little barricade in front of the iron +door; for Ferd had remembered Logan’s words about Jackman’s madness, +and he, cat-like, had been watching Jackman. “Dr. Jackman,” Caggia had +said, “you don’ blow me to hell.” Jackman had fired at him promptly, +and had hit him, but Caggia had fired back. After a minute’s exchange +of shots, the Maltese, wounded, still gripped his rifle behind the +boxes and chairs. Jackman had leaped back up the stairs and was gone +through the passages. Even his try for annihilation had failed. + + * * * * * + +Simmons they found still in the study in the old tower, and took him +without difficulty. But Dr. Edmund Jackman they did not find. The door +to the garden was open, and Simmons said that from the window he had +seen Jackman go over the garden wall, favoring one side as if he were +slightly wounded. + +“I think, Mr. Logan,” Malcolm Mor said, “that because he is a clever +man, he will have gone to look for our boat below the chapel.” + +Yes, he would have, Logan thought. In the course of the fight, Jackman +must have recognized some of the attackers, perhaps old Malcolm; and, +having seen them that morning near the chapel, he would guess that the +boat was below those cliffs. That the wounded man could find his way +down, Logan doubted. Yet so long as Jackman was at large, no one in +Carnglass could be safe. The hound had become the fox now. + +“Mary,” Hugh Logan said, “I must be after him.” She had an arm around +him. + +“I know the island best,” she told him, “and from this night I am going +to stay with you always, Hugh.” + +He looked down at her. “And who would guard the Old House, then, and do +something for the men who’ve been shot, and put out the embers at the +gate, and give the MacAskivals something to eat?” + +Knowing that this was no moment for argument if Jackman were bound +for the boat, Mary MacAskival looked proudly into Logan’s eyes. “Then +take Malcolm Mor,” she said, “for he will know where to search, and I +will send other men so soon as I can.” The MacAskivals, having locked +Simmons and Tompkins in a cellar, crowded round her deferentially for +instructions. “Dr. Jackman shot my dog, Hugh, to hurt me. But do you +come back to me, forever.” + +One last kiss, and then he left her in her strength and beauty, as the +tears were starting down her cheeks. “Before sunrise, Mary girl, I’ll +be with you.” Logan and Malcolm Mor went through the garden--for the +great gate still was a charred and smoking hulk--and over the garden +dyke below the old tower, the way that Jackman had gone, and they +strode toward St. Merin’s Chapel. Now and then Logan stumbled: he had +been without sleep for twenty-four hours. + +“If he can go down the cliffs,” Malcolm Mor panted, “then the man with +the third eye is more than man.” Malcolm was a wonder: he had been on +his feet nearly as long as Logan, and he was past seventy. + +Beyond Cailleach, they flung themselves down for a brief rest. Their +rifles seemed immensely heavy. Carnglass, in its nocturnal beauty, was +at peace. The bleating of sheep, disturbed by the men, echoed from the +heights where the chapel stood. “Malcolm Mor,” Logan said, “I believe +you think Jackman really is something not human.” + +“It would be well to have silver bullets for our guns.” The old man +muttered something in Gaelic. “But devil or not, he will have climbed +up there.” Malcolm Mor gestured toward the headland. They took up their +guns again, and in less than an hour made out the shape of St. Merin’s +Chapel, and of the Pict’s House, the Firgower’s House, beyond it. + +“If he has tried the path here,” Malcolm said very low, “he will +not reach the shore alive, not knowing the way, and having a bullet +in him.” Both Logan and Malcolm Mor moved slowly now; Logan doubted +whether even Malcolm, while so weary, could descend this precipice, and +he was certain that he himself could not. They climbed over the ruinous +drystone wall close by the broch; from the dyke to the crumbling +cliff-edge was less than a yard. A thousand feet and more below, the +ocean heaved northward to the pole. + +Then something rose from behind the dyke. Malcolm Mor tried to bring +up his rifle, but a bullet struck the stock and sent the gun spinning +from his hand. Logan had his rifle over his shoulder. He pulled at it +desperately. And Jackman shot Hugh Logan. + +Logan fell backward, and his head struck nothing at all, for he lay +right on the cliff’s edge, with only infinite space at the back of his +head. There was a fierce pain in his right thigh, where the bullet +from the little pistol had caught him. Edmund Jackman stepped over +the broken dyke and stood only seven or eight feet distant from them, +his left arm pressed hard against his side. The moonlight was full on +Jackman’s face, and the eyes were slits, and the face was that of a man +lost in a nightmare. Malcolm Mor stood fixed by the spot where Logan +lay. + +“Young Askival and Old Askival,” Jackman said. “I have the two of you.” +He pointed the pistol at Malcolm. “Put him over the edge, Old Askival.” + +Malcolm Mor bent slowly over Logan. He took Logan by the shoulders, and +drew him back from that terrible cliff-lip, and propped him against +a stone fallen from the dyke. Silent, Malcolm stared at Jackman. I am +done, Logan thought, but if I can catch his ankle, Jackman may go over +the edge with me, and Mary will be safe. + +“Both of you at once, then,” Jackman said dismally. “Old Askival and +Young Askival.” He took aim at Malcolm. Hugh Logan tried to hurl +himself forward, but his smashed thighbone failed him. + +There came, at that instant, a kind of gurgling cry, and a sound +of running, of something hurrying right along the cliff’s edge, at +Jackman’s back. Edmund Jackman turned his head. Malcolm and Logan and +Jackman saw all at once the thing that was coming. + +It was a burly man in tattered corduroy breeches, a long green jacket, +and a yellow waistcoat, with a porkpie hat on his head, his arms +flapping as he ran. He mouthed as he came, but what noise he uttered +was not speech. And his face was a dead mask, and not human. The thing +made straight for Jackman. + +Mary had sent Angus after Logan. And, with the heroism of children and +simpletons, Angus sought to put his body between Logan and his enemy. + +But what Edmund Jackman saw in that dreadful masked figure, Logan knew: +the shape of his victim, and the face of his nightmare horror. With a +moan, Jackman turned to run. He took one bound in that high place, and +upon the brink the heather gave beneath him; and where Lagg had gone +down, there Jackman fell. + +Though they say that the ocean yields up all its dead upon the skerries +of Carnglass, no man found Jackman after. As from the cliff-head at +Gadara, the unclean spirit was cast into the sea. And Logan, with +Malcolm Mor kneeling beside him and Dumb Angus shivering with fright +against the dyke, heard no sound from below but the suck of the tide +upon the weary stones. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: + + + Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. + + Perceived typographical errors have been corrected. + + Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. + + Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. + + New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the + public domain. + + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77800 *** |