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diff --git a/77800-h/77800-h.htm b/77800-h/77800-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a147ef3 --- /dev/null +++ b/77800-h/77800-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9667 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <title> + Old House of Fear | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.tdrw {text-align: right; padding-left: 3em;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .blockquot { + margin-left: 7.5%; + margin-right: 7.5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} +.ph2 {text-align: center; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;} + +div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} +div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} + +.xxlarge {font-size: 175%;} +.large {font-size: 125%;} + +.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {display: inline-block; text-align: left;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -2.5em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .indent {text-indent: 1.5em;} +.poetry .first {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 2.7em;} +.poetry .first2 {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .first1 {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3.2em;} + +@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } +.x-ebookmaker .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} + +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; + padding: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + +.x-ebookmaker .transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; + padding: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77800 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt=""></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>old house of fear</h1> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="title page"></div> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="titlepage"> +<p><span class="xxlarge">OLD<br> +HOUSE<br> +OF<br> +FEAR</span></p> + +<p><span class="large">BY RUSSELL KIRK</span></p> + +<p>FLEET PUBLISHING CORPORATION<br> +230 PARK AVENUE<br> +NEW YORK 17, N.Y.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center"> COPYRIGHT © 1961<br> +BY FLEET PUBLISHING CORPORATION<br> +230 Park Avenue, New York 17, New York<br> +<br> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br> +<br> +Protected under International Copyright Convention<br> +and the Pan American Copyright Convention<br> +<br> +Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-7627<br> +<br> +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center">This Gothick tale, in unblushing line<br> +of direct descent from <i>The Castle of<br> +Otranto</i>, I do inscribe to Abigail Fay.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2> + +<table> +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 1</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_11"> <i>11</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 2</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_26"> <i>26</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 3</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_42"> <i>42</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 4</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_58"> <i>58</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 5</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_78"> <i>78</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 6</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_95"> <i>95</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 7</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_111"> <i>111</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 8</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_136"> <i>136</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 9</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_153"> <i>153</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 10</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_173"> <i>173</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 11</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_187"> <i>187</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 12</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_201"> <i>201</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 13</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_218"> <i>218</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 14</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_230"> <i>230</i></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Chapter</td><td class="tdr"> 15</td><td class="tdrw"><a href="#Page_248"> <i>248</i></a></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="ph2">old house of fear</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> + <h2 class="nobreak">1</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>Three thousand miles away, two men sat in a handsome +office. “That’s our island,” Duncan MacAskival said: “Carnglass.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>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?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Call me Duncan, Hugh,” MacAskival said, “if you’ll +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“So Ann Robertson brought money back to the MacAskivals +more than a hundred years after the Clearance?”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>back Carnglass with Robertson money, and restored Old +House of Fear.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Then she’s not even a cousin of sorts to you?”</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“The Old House is liveable, then, Duncan?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“And you want a white mastodon?”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“It all looks like something from before the Flood,” +Logan murmured.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a strange island,” Logan said, unsmiling.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Scotland has no law of trespass—only acts of interdict +after damage has been done to property.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve corresponded with him, Duncan?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>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:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="right">“3rd March</p> + +<p>“Duncan MacAskival, Esq.</p> + +<p>“Sir:</p> + +<p>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.”</p> +</div> + +<p>There was no signature. “Lady MacAskival’s own +hand?” Logan inquired.</p> + +<p>“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 <i>Julius Caesar</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>“This week, Duncan? Next month, at the soonest.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“‘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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>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.’”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“‘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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“‘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.’”</p> + +<p>“Old Mr. Balmullo,” Logan broke in, “seems to have +taken a fearful joy in recording superstitions. He protests +too much.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Never fear, Duncan,” Logan told him, with his slow +smile. “The Harding case comes up next month, and I’ll be +back for it.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“You’re really going to give me dinner at your club, +Duncan?”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Probably because there’s no romance in me,” Logan +murmured, straightfaced.</p> + +<p>“Why, there’s a good deal in you, Hugh. You’re canny, +but have a certain way with you.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t forget this, though, Duncan—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first">“‘You can grave it on his tombstone, you can cut it on his card:</div> +<div class="verse">A young man married is a young man marred.’”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>“Well! Hugh, you’re full of surprises. I thought only +aged creatures like me still read Kipling. I can match you—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first">“‘Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,</div> +<div class="verse">He travels fastest who travels alone.’</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Which way are you travelling, Hugh, with that innocent +face of yours?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">2</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>Who was this agent of the factor? That information the +postal authorities were not authorized to give out.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>It was a soiled card with crumpled corners, cheaply +printed, and it read, “James Dowie, Commission Agent. +5 Mutto’s Wynd, Gallowgate.”</p> + +<p>“How far is Gallowgate?” Logan asked.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Logan, “I’m usually in a hurry. Surely a taxi +could take me there in ten minutes?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“O aye,” the driver grunted, “ye needna teach this auld +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>dog new tricks.” Logan rapped at the battered door of +No. 5.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Dowie?” Aye, he was Mr. Dowie. “Mr. Dowie, I’ve +been told you might know of a way to get to Carnglass.”</p> + +<p>Dowie, sucking in his fat cheeks, looked long and slyly +at Logan. “Tak’ a chair, mon. Ye’ll no be frae these parts?”</p> + +<p>Logan sat. “I’m an American, Mr. Dowie, with business +in Carnglass.”</p> + +<p>Dowie leaned against the desk. “An’ what wud that business +be?”</p> + +<p>“I’m representing my principal.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“The factor. Yes, we’ve corresponded with him.”</p> + +<p>“Aye, just so. And ye’ll ken Dr. Jackman?” Here Dowie, +stooping slightly, looked Logan in the eyes.</p> + +<p>“No, Mr. Dowie, I don’t know any Dr. Jackman.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Hugh Logan. I’m to see Lady MacAskival.”</p> + +<p>“O aye. Lady MacAskival. She’s no keepin’ verra weel, +ye ken.”</p> + +<p>“So I understand.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve only time for a Carnglass trip.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Logan shook his head. “I don’t know a single political +writer, Mr. Dowie.”</p> + +<p>“And ye’ll no ken Dr. Jackman?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Dowie sat down at the desk and pulled open a drawer. +“Noo your principal, Mr. Logan—he’ll be Mr. Duncan +MacAskival?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Wha’ loon told ye that?”</p> + +<p>“Has Lady MacAskival received our cables?”</p> + +<p>“Wud I be a miracle-mon, Mr. Logan? I canna send +word tae Carnglass by Tellie—by TV, ye Yanks say. And +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>wha’ wi’ the high seas, there’s no boat that wud put oot +for Daldour nor Carnglass these three days syne.”</p> + +<p>“Then I suppose Lady MacAskival’s not expecting me?”</p> + +<p>“Ye can suppose wha’ ye like, Mr. Logan.”</p> + +<p>“When can I get passage from Glasgow to Carnglass?”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Jeanie went. “Well, now, Mr. Dowie,” Logan said, “have +you found something for me?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>“If you’ll do nothing for me, Dowie, I’ll go elsewhere. +It’s getting late.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“That may be my taxi leaving,” Logan said. He had +his stick in his hand.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>“Hello, Yank,” the lank man said. The other three +came slowly round Logan.</p> + +<p>“Good evening, friend,” Logan answered. No one else +was in the wynd.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, friend, but I’m in a hurry.” It was quiet and +dark in Mutto’s Wynd.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>This was no simple robbery: they meant to slash or +cripple him, or something worse. Another fierce kick in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“There’s small harm done, constable, and I’m leaving +Glasgow tomorrow.”</p> + +<p>“Did they not take your money, sir?”</p> + +<p>Logan felt inside his coat and discovered no billfold. +“Yes, but I hadn’t much with me.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“What gentleman?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>An hour later, in bed at Todd’s Hotel, and tired though +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“It had been the MacAskival’s design,” Balmullo wrote, +“to have demolished <i>in toto</i> 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.’</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>Here Logan turned out the light. For all his aches and +pains, he never had slept sounder in his life.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Cashiered, yes. Logan made almost a hobby of collecting +clippings from newspapers about curious cases of criminal +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">3</h2> +</div> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I’d pay whatever they might ask,” Logan told him.</p> + +<p>“It’s not wholly a matter of <i>l.s.d.</i>, 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Who lives in Daldour, Mr. Crawford?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first2">“Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!</div> +<div class="indent">To all the sensual world proclaim</div> +<div class="verse">One crowded hour of glorious life</div> +<div class="indent">Is worth an age without a name.”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>Gare!” the military gentleman called out, by way of introduction.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” Logan told him mildly, “but I don’t have +any cigarettes about me.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Why should you think so, sir?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I saw you at Todd’s Hotel,” Logan observed.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>slapped the stick against his leg, below the short mackintosh +he wore.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“I take it that you know the world, Captain Gare,” +Logan said, smiling slightly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You’re an astute man, Captain Gare.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid my business is with Lady MacAskival herself.”</p> + +<p>Captain Gare edged still closer. “Lady MacAskival is +not competent to transact business, Mr. Logan. I mean to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>say that she’s infirm. Quite old, you know. No taste for +American trippers.”</p> + +<p>“She has been in correspondence with my principal.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“You have the money in your pocket?” Logan inquired.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I do happen to carry such sums on my person, Captain +Gare,” Logan told him.</p> + +<p>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....”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“For certain information.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>“For instance,” Logan said, “detailed information concerning +the past, present, and future of Jackman.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I take it that you know now what I am,” said Logan, +still quietly. “Whatever made you think I might accept +money?”</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>Gare, backing further away, muttered pitifully, “Then +you’re.... Then I’m not under...?” Logan gestured +impatiently toward the town below.</p> + +<p>“You can go to the devil, Gare.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>As he dressed, next morning, Logan saw from his window +the steamer “Lochness” at the pier: it would take him +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>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 <i>had</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>At the close of this charming paragraph, Logan settled +himself to sleep.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>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?</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>themselves, Mr. Logan, they speak a dialect as strange to +me as the Gaelic is to you.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Not for fifty pounds?” Logan asked.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Colin MacLean gave Logan a long hard look from under +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve rowed before,” Logan said. “Here’s another twenty +pounds for the dinghy.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I would,” Logan answered. “Take me aboard your +drifter, and I’ll write it now.”</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>with the tide in flood, the weather permitting. And then +I wash my hands of it.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Let me into the dinghy,” Logan told him, “and I’ll cast +off.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>a keeper’s cottage, and perhaps you can dry yourself there.” +Under his breath, Colin muttered something like “God +help you.”</p> + +<p>Then Logan cast off and took the dinghy’s oars. The +drifter receded into the night.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">4</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Once only, in all his life before, had he been so frightened; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Some dry bits of driftwood lay by the peats. Logan tested +the cigar-lighter he had kept in an inner pocket of his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>the door with the broken hasp, Logan went out into +the Carnglass afternoon.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>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.</p> + +<p>Swinging his glasses toward the three riflemen, Logan +thought he caught some movement to <i>their</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>two more shots, though; and then silence followed. Through +all this, no human voice had drifted up to him.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>Then a deep voice spoke behind him. “Will you be +a writer, or a philosophist?” the voice said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“I have no gun, Mr. Donley.”</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand you, Mr. Donley, and I didn’t bring +a gun.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>Logan told him.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>foot ashore, then it’s Seamus who’ll set you in Scotland +safe, Mr. Scots Detective, and shake your hand at parting.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“What fire?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Then they’ve had no communication with the mainland +for three days?” This, Logan thought, could explain +the confusion of Dowie and Gare.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Do you take me for an informer?” The heavy voice, +there in the smoky darkness, took on an ominous tone. It +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>never would do to forget that Donley must be a thoroughly +dangerous man.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“And what,” Logan continued as he adjusted the clumsy +bandage, “is life like at the Old House?”</p> + +<p>“Well, now, Mr. Detective Logan, do you mind that bit +in Dante’s Inferno where old Dante and Vergil observe the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“How many others are in the Old House?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean that Lagg is dead?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“If I’m to bear witness for you, Seamus, perhaps you’ll +tell me the details of your part in the business.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Getting up abruptly, Donley went to the door and put +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">5</h2> +</div> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“‘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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Does Davie Anderson have a brother Jock, in the +Gallowgate of Glasgow?” Logan put in.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What good would killing women be to Jackman?” +Logan asked.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>for scapegoat? Why, old Seamus Donley, that’s a fugitive +from English justice.”</p> + +<p>“And did Lagg know of this?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What sort of fire, Donley?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“‘Donley,’ Jackman says to me, in his quiet wicked way, +‘come along. We’re hunting today.’</p> + +<p>“‘Then I’ll be wanting my shotgun, Dr. Jackman,’ I +say to him. But he shakes his misbegotten head.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>“‘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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“‘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.</p> + +<p>“Jackman grins his devil-grin. ‘Good day, Mr. Lagg,’ +says he. ‘You’re a warm friend, Mr. Lagg.’</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“‘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.</p> + +<p>“‘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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>“‘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.’</p> + +<p>“‘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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>his pocket. Yet it is four to one. Jackman’s devil-grin never +changes.</p> + +<p>“‘Why, Father Seamus,’ he says, genteel as Brian Boru, +‘I presume you aspire to the role of confessor.’</p> + +<p>“‘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.’</p> + +<p>“‘I’ll humor your piety, Father Seamus,’ Jackman says, +though his black eyes are like hell-coals. ‘Mr. Lagg, to your +devotions.’</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Jackman looks at his wrist-watch. ‘<i>Pax vobiscum</i>,’ 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 <i>coup de +grace</i> to our old comrade here.’ The eyes of those four +murtherers are turned on myself like dogs round a badger.</p> + +<p>“‘Jackman,’ I tell him, ‘may I screech in Hell if I lift a +finger in this bloody business.’</p> + +<p>“‘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.</p> + +<p>“‘Being but one man, Jackman,’ say I, ‘I cannot hinder +you. Yet you’ll not harm the rascal in my sight.’</p> + +<p>“‘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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>back to your cottage. You and I must have a serious conversation +later.’</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>‘Who’s there?’ And he catches a glimpse of my bald head +above the dyke. ‘Donley,’ he sings, ‘if that’s you, show yourself.’</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>the cliffs; and the weather was too much for any chance +aircraft.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>morning, there was no trace of her. You can trust Seamus +for a job of sabotage.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 <i>boom!</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“And myself with them, Mr. Detective Logan. Even had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<i>she</i> 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?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve nothing but a walking-stick and a long razor,” +Logan said.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>Logan fitted the holster under his arm. “That’s generous +of you, Seamus Donley.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Give me your hand,” Logan said. The tremendous +grip of the Irishman almost made him cry out.</p> + +<p>“We should have been Dominicans together, Mr. +Logan,” Donley grinned. He let go Logan’s hand. “Now +put your shoulder to the dinghy.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">6</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>would not come to him. And then, trembling and suffering +from cramp in one leg, Hugh Logan woke.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>course had its perils. Then the decision was taken out of +his hands.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Fine old trees grew at the very foot of the living rock +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>cliffs and hill-tops, though possibly it would not sink low +into the valley.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>his rock-bruises and his two-day beard. “Now what is your +name, please, and who sent you?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I’m Hugh Logan,” he said, “representing Mr. Duncan +MacAskival.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>Logan shook his head. This would be the Young One. +But who was she?</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“There’s no one with me,” Logan said. She still had +him nearly tongue-tied, like an adolescent.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“I came alone from America, Miss MacAskival, and it +was all I could do to make Carnglass by myself.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Just a question or two, please,” Logan said. “I met a +man named Donley at the other end of the island.”</p> + +<p>“Of course.” She smiled. “A great cheerful ruffian. And +he said some things to you? They will not have caught him +yet?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe they’ll ever catch that man, Miss MacAskival. +He told me that matters are dangerous here in +the Old House.”</p> + +<p>“He told you truly. What else did he tell you?”</p> + +<p>“He said that Dr. Jackman intends to—to have Lady +MacAskival die.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>Logan looked her compassionately in the eyes. “And +Donley hinted that you, too, were to die.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Logan had cultivated a calm courtroom presence, but +now he blinked. “You’re not joking?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>The man’s voice was controlled and well modulated. +“I am surprised to find you have a visitor, Miss MacAskival.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">7</h2> +</div> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>Jackman looked vexed, though not especially with him. +“Mr. Logan,” Jackman said, “did you ever dream that you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“She has, sir; and I am thankful I did not meet with +him on my way. An Irishman, she says.”</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>That barefoot little girl stepped forward like a princess. +“Dr. Jackman: surely you remember my Airedale, Tyke?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” Jackman said with a frosty smile, “I do. A great +pity, that rabbit-hunting accident.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>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....”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>name—no two alike. “Late fifteenth century, perhaps,” +Jackman said, “and almost unique in the islands, this ceiling.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>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?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, sir,” Logan demurred wholeheartedly, “that +never would do at the British Linen Bank. The manager +never would allow it.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>going to a cupboard set in the wall, carefully drew out a +heavy box and set it on the table before Logan.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>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 <i>l.s.d.</i> +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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>rambling ill-lit place such as the Old House of Fear is, +would you?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>de facto</i>, you +understand, and what I say now is for her good and your +own, and is to be held in confidence.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Jackman frowned at the chessboard. “I take it that Miss +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>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?”</p> + +<p>“Why, sir, we’ve not discussed the matter in detail, but +I have assumed that Mary was to have her due.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>adopt Miss MacAskival, nor make any provision for her +future.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>Logan took another pawn. “Oh, surely now, Dr. Jackman, +you don’t mean to say that my Mary’s a wild girl?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>I’m sorry, Mr. Logan. But to tell you all this is the best +service I can render you.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“And I confess I am somewhat surprised, Logan,” Jackman +was saying, “that you got yourself engaged to the girl +while she is a minor.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, surely, Dr. Jackman, Mary’s old enough to choose +for herself.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Jackman,” he said, “I understand there was a factor, +a Mr. Lagg. Where is he?”</p> + +<p>Jackman seemed taken aback at this <i>non sequitur</i>. +“Surely Mary has told you....”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“But to return to a topic almost equally difficult for me, +Logan: I think you will perceive that your marrying Miss +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you’re right, Dr. Jackman,” Logan replied, +still in his bank-clerk role.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Royall!” Jackman called. The five looked up, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Is there no trace of Donley?” Jackman shouted. Gesturing +dispiritedly, Royall shouted back, “I’ll explain when +I come up.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">8</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>“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.</p> + +<p>Logan looked her full in the face. “Yes, we were.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>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 <i>they</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>have been slightly vulgar. Mary MacAskival slid between +him and the bed-rail. “Aunt!” she whispered, very low. +“Aunt, Mr. Logan has come.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Aunt,” said Mary MacAskival, “he may be trusted.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>They were back in the book-lined corridor. “Is she under +drugs?” Logan asked.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>you were very old—why, I think even you would lie there +like my aunt, Hugh.”</p> + +<p>“Who did these things?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>Tompkins murmured, quite deferentially, and +withdrew back toward the tower.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Do you know what <i>that</i> 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 <i>is</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Now Logan could make out that in the middle of that +painted forehead, with horns sprouting above it, was a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>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 <i>you</i> do not +have a third eye.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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....’”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, sir?” Logan said, ingenuously. “Why, now, I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>would have thought there would be difficulties in doing +Rabbie Burns into the Russian tongue.”</p> + +<p>“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—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first1">‘For a’ that, and a’ that,</div> +<div class="indent">It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that,</div> +<div class="verse">That man to man, the warld o’er,</div> +<div class="indent">Shall brothers be for a’ that.’</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Do I have it quite right, Mr. Logan?” Royall gave him +another long stare.</p> + +<p>“Aye, as I mind it, it goes so, Mr. Royall. Very sound +sentiments—brothers the world o’er.” Logan smiled at +him.</p> + +<p>Royall hesitated; then, “Would you care to give me a +gloss on those lines, Mr. Logan?”</p> + +<p>Logan looked puzzled, as indeed he was. “A gloss, sir? +Now how do you mean? A commentary?”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Royall thought some remarks might occur to your +mind, Mr. Logan,” Jackman put in. “Concerning international +brotherhood, perhaps.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Dowie? I know a solicitor’s clerk of that name in Dalkeith; +but he reads only American thrillers, sir.”</p> + +<p>“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—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first1">‘My love she’s but a lassie yet,</div> +<div class="verse">My love she’s but a lassie yet,</div> +<div class="verse">We’ll let her stand a year or twa,</div> +<div class="verse">She’ll no be half sae saucy yet.’</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Apropos, Mr. Logan?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Tompkins,” Jackman said as the butler served him, +“I take it that Carruthers and Rab have returned by this +time?”</p> + +<p>“No, Dr. Jackman.” Logan saw that Tompkins’ hands +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>trembled slightly. “Neither of them, sir. Not hide nor +hair.”</p> + +<p>Jackman bit his lip. “Royall, where do you suppose +they’ve got to? It has been quite dark for more than an +hour.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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...?”</p> + +<p>“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—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first1">‘Gaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;</div> +<div class="verse">Thou’rt to Love and Heaven sae dear,</div> +<div class="verse">Nocht of ill may come thee near,</div> +<div class="indent">My bonnie dearie.’”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“How very slow Tompkins is in bringing the sweet tonight! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>May I play until he comes? Hugh, will you sing +with me?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first2">“An’ Charlie he’s my darling,</div> +<div class="verse">My darling, my darling,</div> +<div class="verse">Charlie he’s my darling,</div> +<div class="indent">The young Chevalier.”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first2">“Sae light’s he jimped up the stair,</div> +<div class="indent">And tirled at the pin;</div> +<div class="verse">And wha sae ready as hersel,</div> +<div class="indent">To let the laddie in.”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Then, above the noise of the ocean, there came an unnatural +sound, echoing perhaps from the other side of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first2">“It’s up yon hethery mountain,</div> +<div class="indent">And down yon scroggy glen,</div> +<div class="verse">We daur na gang a milking,</div> +<div class="indent">For Charlie and his men.”</div> +</div></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>“If anyone fires from out there,” he whispered to her, +“we’ll be so many sitting ducks.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>groped for the gun, found it, and hurried back, glancing +over his lean shoulder.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“O, it took him, it took him!” cried Rab, and lapsed +into incoherence.</p> + +<p>“I’ll have the heart out of you, Rab, if you don’t speak +up. What took Carruthers?” Jackman slapped him again.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Tompkins, carrying a petrol lantern, led the girl and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>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:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> +<div class="first">“‘It’s up yon hethery mountain,</div> +<div class="indent">And down yon scroggy glen,</div> +<div class="verse">We daur na gang a milking,</div> +<div class="indent">For Charlie and his men.’</div> +</div></div> + +<p>Take care this night, Hugh.” Then she was gone into the +bedroom hung with Spanish leather.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">9</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>there in the blackness, whoever it was would stab an +empty bed.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>at all hours, like a wraith, and he <i>would</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Now that you have knocked <i>me</i> 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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>make a case for herself. “He told me, Mary MacAskival,” +Logan said, “that you were eccentric.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“That he has. But he’s no girl of fifteen.”</p> + +<p>“Fifteen?” She sounded startled. “Whatever do you +mean?”</p> + +<p>“You are fifteen, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“And he said you were too fond of men.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“When you were thirteen, Jackman said, you—why, you +loved a gardener here in Carnglass.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>It was impossible not to believe her: Jackman was plausible, +but Mary MacAskival was all candor. “What a consummate +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>liar Jackman is!” Logan played with Donley’s +little gun.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Would it matter to you if I were a pauper?” She was +serious now; he thought her firm chin went up.</p> + +<p>“Not in the least.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>your bedchamber, and you talk of title-deeds! You <i>are</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>all</i> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>of two months. And then there was another visit, lengthier; +and another.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>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 <i>would</i> +come back, and gobble at her bedroom door on windy +nights, and she lay in dread that one night he might cross +the threshold.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Like a bomb?” asked Hugh Logan, startled.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Explosives?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>outside was gone elsewhere in the labyrinth of the Old +House.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Jackman smiled a horrid smile. ‘Who would believe +a mad girl?’ was what he said. And then he told me +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Jackman and Royall, she was convinced, had no notion +of what she had done or of Logan’s real identity. Once +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>sudden vanishing, Logan almost doubted that the strange +little creature ever had crouched sobbing beside him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Be good enough to open it.” Mary MacAskival’s green +eyes glittered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Caught off balance, Anderson crashed against the door. +His big head jerked back, his arm flew away from the girl, +and he fell.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Then Royall drew in his breath. “Dr. Jackman,” he +said, hoarsely, “see what gun that is!”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">10</h2> +</div> + +<p>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, <i>do</i> get Anderson +to his bed, for he’s sprinkling blood all over the flags, +and there’s a lady present.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You’d best go, Mary,” Logan told her, with what assurance +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>he could summon up. She turned and fled into +the Old House.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>the ready. We mustn’t underestimate his talents a second +time.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>my</i> pocket now.” Royall hesitated, as if +to offer some objection; but, at a dark glance from Jackman, +went out.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>“You <i>are</i> a cool chap, Logan. I needn’t tell you I have +ways of extracting a statement from you. I know all the +ways, Logan.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Ah, well, Dr. Jackman, you and I are playing for higher +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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 <i>contretemps</i> 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 <i>peine fort et dure</i> to a +young lady would be quite their cup of tea.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>does a diligent man’s reputation more serious damage than +an unauthorized and unnecessary atrocity. <i>You</i> ought to +know that by this time, Jackman.”</p> + +<p>“The things I did, others told me to do, Logan.” Jackman’s +lips worked. He lost another pawn.</p> + +<p>“Quite. But you went rather beyond specific instructions, +didn’t you? I don’t advise you to exceed instructions +here in Carnglass.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>him questions, in a low, almost friendly voice, to which +Logan had given no answers as yet.</p> + +<p>Just now Jackman was saying, ever so softly, “Who <i>are</i> +your friends outside the Old House, out there in the wet +and the dark?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Your move,” Logan reminded him. Edmund Jackman +moved almost at random. “So!” Logan shifted his queen. +“Checkmate, Dr. Jackman.”</p> + +<p>“Hell!” cried Jackman, reaching out his hand as if to +sweep the pieces to the floor.</p> + +<p>“Easy!” Logan said, intercepting Jackman’s hand with +his own. “There’s but this one set in the world, you know.”</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>That’s heresy in the Party; but I have looked on Hell. +There is no Heaven, but there is Hell.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Hugh Logan fought clear of the contagion of madness. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">11</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Take hold of yourself, Dr. Jackman. We’ve this fellow +Logan to deal with. Very well, Logan: come over here and +sit down.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“We’d best search this man,” Royall said. He slipped a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Tompkins searched his room this morning?” Jackman +asked.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh?” Logan answered, amicably. “And who do you suppose +took Carruthers? Donley was dead hours before you +missed Carruthers, remember.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>libido dominandi</i>, +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>murdered order, these two at last were cast into the +outer darkness.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Dr. Jackman,” Royall said, “I have a theory concerning +our friend Logan. I believe he’s one of Vlanarov’s people.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>Jackman bit his lip. “Do you mean—do you mean they’ve +been taken?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But after all,” Royall put in eagerly, “Bruhl himself +gave his consent to this project.”</p> + +<p>“Tentative consent is one thing,” Logan said; “approval +of blunders in operation is another.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“For years those people have used Royall and me in this +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“I’m not authorized to offer any opinion on that subject, +as yet,” Logan said, with what he hoped was an enigmatic +smile.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Do you have a cigarette?” said Logan. “I suppose lunch +will be ready soon.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>This was spreading it perilously thick, Logan thought, +but one might as well be taken for a tiger as for an alley-cat.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Inadvertently, he might have carried the game too far, +Logan saw: he might get himself drowned for a commissar +instead of a police-agent.</p> + +<p>“Damn it,” Jackman almost shouted, the patch in the +middle of his forehead twitching, “are you really from +Vlanarov? Do you have another name?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Now, now, Dr. Jackman,” Royall murmured, “if he +<i>is</i> from Vlanarov, we’d best not....”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Jackman, I really do think ...” Royall began, uneasily. +But Jackman cut him off.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The place below was wholly dark. Caggia carried a petrol +lantern, and he lit it and swung it round. This crypt, hollowed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Gude for Jock,” growled Anderson. “I’ll soon gie ye +anither.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Ferd Caggia’s perpetual grin diminished. He glanced +appraisingly at Dr. Jackman. “Ferd,” said Logan, “presumably +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Logan,” Jackman muttered in his ear, “do you want +a bullet in your spine?”</p> + +<p>“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?</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“I think I’ll not go,” Logan told them. They scarcely +could carry him down the swaying rope ladder.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>“Jump for it,” Jackman’s voice sounded ever so faintly +above.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be damned if I do,” Logan roared back.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">12</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>anyway. But one thought about such things in the Bottle, +for lack of aught else to do.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Seduced him?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>He was bemused. “Whatever for?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“We’re to go into that, Mary?” But Mary MacAskival +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>shoes and stockings. “Now, Mr. Barrister Logan, you pillar +of respectability, you may wear trousers again.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>away, but she believed they would dispose of Logan in the +morning, if not sooner.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“One crowded hour of glorious life,” Logan told her, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>“really is worth an age without a name. And if I’d not come, +I’d never have met Miss Mary MacAskival, would I?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Logan stared at her. “Who’d see the fire, except Jackman’s +boys?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Your people?” The girl must be sunk in a Carnglass +fantasy.</p> + +<p>“Hurry, Hugh,” was all she said. “It won’t be long +before dawn.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>tall ruin, infinitely older than the chapel, round, nearly +forty feet high, windowless and roofless, loomed at the +brink of the cliff.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>wish one could carry me off—and you. Now you see my +Carnglass, Hugh Logan.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“That I would, Mary MacAskival.” Carnglass, for good +or evil, set its mark on men.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>and strange that girl was, perhaps a little mad; but in that +moment he loved her more than all the kingdoms of the +earth.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Ah, well,” came Jackman’s voice from below, “you <i>did</i> +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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">13</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Anderson glowered at Logan. “Ye said I wud hae the +thrashin’ o’ that clot, Doctor.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Powert most obviously did not relish the plan. “Coom, +Dr. Jackman, I’ve a bad arm, and this cove’s a queer one.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Wha’ fule’s been diggin’ graves?” Anderson growled, +looking back over his shoulder toward the empty doorway.</p> + +<p>Jackman stood rigid; then, “I think Carruthers must +be under that clay. Anderson, take the spade and uncover +him.” Mary MacAskival shivered slightly.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>big piece of tarred canvas. “That will be the head at the +far end,” Jackman whispered. “Powert, draw the canvas +from the face.”</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Powert, his teeth chattering, let the canvas drop back +over the corpse.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Me? I’ll not sit here by the dead man.” Powert scarcely +could hold his rifle.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Hugh,” Mary called back, reckless of Jackman, “Hugh, +I love you!” Then she and Jackman and Anderson were +out of sight.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>ever so slightly, or was it the breeze? “Sing out,” Powert +shouted, glaring wild-eyed at the flimsy door, “or I’ll +shoot!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“That they are,” Logan said, emphatically.</p> + +<p>“Then,” Malcolm Mor went on, in the slow, gentle +Island English, “it would be lawful for us to hunt them?” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>Logan suspected that the people of Daldour were extremely +shy of the law.</p> + +<p>“It would,” Logan told him. “I am a lawyer, and I give +you my authority.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“We can catch him,” Malcolm Mor said, like a dog eager +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>for the word from his master. “He is a town man, and we +are faster.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>As they trotted and scrambled toward the valley, the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>boy running by Logan’s side, Logan said to Malcolm Gille, +“Why does Dumb Angus wear such clothes?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">14</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>to the Old House; then it was hidden again by a low intervening +ridge.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>might be able to demolish the morale of Jackman’s people, +already badly shaken.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The effect was the more horrid because at first Logan +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>Angus, and, without showing themselves distinctly, they +dogged the Carnglass men like bogles.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Well, Malcolm Mor and the others had got their heads +over the summit of the sea-cliff just as Logan had been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Malcolm Mor, Malcolm Gille, and Logan himself took +position at the edge of the trees, prone, with guns ready to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>need the advantage of darkness so long as they could +keep it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>window, Angus holding it firm at the bottom. Someone +fired a shot from above them, but no one seemed to be hit.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> + +<h2 class="nobreak">15</h2> +</div> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Jackman,” Logan called down, “drop your gun and +come up, and I’ll promise you a trial. Otherwise we’ll +promise nothing.”</p> + +<p>But it was not Jackman that answered from the crypt. +“Ah! Meester Logan, that is you?” The voice was rather +faint.</p> + +<p>“Who’s there?”</p> + +<p>“Fernando Caggia, your fren’. Meester Logan, you owe +me a pardon for what I do.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>“Drop your gun, Caggia, and come up.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Where is he?”</p> + +<p>Caggia gave a weak shrug. “One minute ago, he runs.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Mary?”</p> + +<p>“The door of the room of Lady MacAskival is locked, but +there are people inside.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“O aye, we’re done!” Anderson roared. “Gie it ower, +Jackman, we’ve had it!”</p> + +<p>Then Jackman rose from his chair. “Royall,” Jackman +said, “keep the men here.”</p> + +<p>“Gude God,” Till heard Anderson say, “the auld de’il’s +for the explosives! Jackman, damn ye, dinna open that +door.”</p> + +<p>“Rab,” cried Royall, “drop your gun.” Shooting began +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>“Mary,” Hugh Logan said, “I must be after him.” She +had an arm around him.</p> + +<p>“I know the island best,” she told him, “and from this +night I am going to stay with you always, Hugh.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“It would be well to have silver bullets for our guns.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Malcolm Mor bent slowly over Logan. He took Logan by +the shoulders, and drew him back from that terrible cliff-lip, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="transnote"> +<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> + +<p>Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.</p> + +<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> + +<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p> + +<p>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p> + +<p>Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.</p> +</div></div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77800 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/77800-h/images/cover.jpg b/77800-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b8af40d --- /dev/null +++ b/77800-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/77800-h/images/coversmall.jpg b/77800-h/images/coversmall.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c68bad5 --- /dev/null +++ b/77800-h/images/coversmall.jpg diff --git a/77800-h/images/i_title.jpg b/77800-h/images/i_title.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5dfe361 --- /dev/null +++ b/77800-h/images/i_title.jpg |
