The Mystery of the Green Ray
“Oh, dash it, no,” said Jack; “I’m going to Berlin on the old snorter.”
“Commissions are off – quite out of the question,” Tommy agreed with emphasis. “To begin with, it means waiting, which is absurd; and in the second place I object to any attempt to travel first-class. It’s silly and snobbish, to put the kindest construction on it. If I’ve got to join this excursion I’m willing to go where they like to put me, and if necessary I’ll hang on behind.”
I record this remark because it was the last that I ever heard poor Tommy Evans make in this connection; and I think the reader will agree it was just what one would have expected of him.
We said good-bye after dinner. They all wanted to come to the station to see me off, but I was anxious to be alone with Dennis.
The others in any case had plenty to do, and I could scarcely let them sacrifice their “last few hours of liberty” to come and see me off. I rather expected that the excitement of the war would have prevented a lot of people travelling, but the reverse was the case. There seemed to be more people than ever on the platform, and I could not get a corner seat even in the Fort William coach. I bundled my things into a carriage and took up as much room as I could, and then Dennis and I strolled about the platform until the train was due to start.
“Strange mixtures of humanity you see on a railway platform,” Dennis remarked presently.
“Very,” I agreed. “I daresay there are some very curious professions represented here.”
“This chap, for instance,” said Dennis, indicating a youth in a tweed jacket and flannel trousers. “He might be anything from an M.P.’s private secretary to an artist’s model, for all we know. I should say he’s a journalist; he knows his way through a crowd as only journalists do.”
“A typical Yorkshire cattle-dealer in his Sunday best,” I suggested, as we passed another passenger. And so we went the length of the platform making rough guesses as to the professions of my fellow travellers. Suddenly I noticed a tall man, wearing a tweed cap and a long covert-coat, his hands in his pockets, a stumpy cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. His hair was gray, and his face bore signs of a tough struggle in early youth. His complexion was of that curious gray-yellow one sees frequently in America and occasionally in Denmark – something quite distinct from the bronze-gray of many colonials. I nudged Dennis.
“What did you make of that?” I asked him after we had passed.
“I should be much more interested to know what ‘that’ made of us,” he replied.
“Nothing, I should think,” I answered carelessly. “Why, the man’s eyes were nearly closed, he was half asleep. I bet he hasn’t taken the slightest notice of anyone for the past ten minutes. You could commit a murder under his nose and he wouldn’t see it.”
“I think not,” said Dennis quietly. “I fancy that if you took out a cigarette-case as you passed him he would be able to tell you afterwards how many cigarettes you had left in the case, what brand they were, and what the monogram on the front was. If you’ve any murders to commit, Ronnie, I should be careful to see that our American friend is some thousands of miles away.”
“Good heavens, you old sleuth!” I exclaimed in astonishment. “I never saw a more innocent-looking man in my life.”
“I hate innocent people,” said Dennis emphatically; “they are usually dangerous, and seldom half as innocent as they look.”
“But what makes you think this man is only pretending to look like a dreaming, unobservant idiot, and why do you call him American so definitely?”
“He may or may not be American; but we have to give him a name for purposes of classification,” Dennis explained. “In any case his overcoat was made in the States; the cut of the lapels is quite unmistakable. I knew an American who tried everywhere to get a coat cut like that over here, and failed. As to his being observant, you seem to have overlooked one important fact. There the man stands, apparently half asleep. Occasionally he displays a certain amount of life – tucks his papers more tightly under his arms, and so on. Now, the man who has been dreaming on a station platform and is obviously going by the train would wake up to look at the clock, or glance round to see how many are travelling, and generally take an interest in the bustle of the station. But this man doesn’t. Why? Because he only wakes up when his interest wanders, and that is only when he has seen all he wants to see for the moment. When we pass him the second time he will probably appear to be more awake, unless there is someone else passing him in the other direction, simply because he has seen us and sized us up and dismissed us as of no interest; or, more likely, stowed us away in his capacious memory, and, having no further use for us, he forgets to appear disinterested.”
“Good Lord, Dennis!” I exclaimed, “I’d no idea you ever noticed things so keenly. What do you think he is – a detective?”
“Either that or a criminal. They are the same type of mind. One is positive and the other negative, that’s all. We’ll turn back and test him as we pass him. Talk golf, or fishing, or something.”
So we commenced a half-hearted conversation on trout flies, and as we approached “the American” I was explaining the deadly nature of the Red Palmer after a spate and the advisability of including Greenwell’s Glory on the same cast. Unfortunately, as we passed our man there were three other people coming towards us, and he was gazing over the top of the carriage with the same dreaming look that had, according to Dennis, deceived me before. But we were hardly abreast of him when his stick shot up in front of us. His arm never moved at all; it was done with a quick jerk of the wrist.
“You’ve dropped a paper, sir,” he said to Dennis, to my utter astonishment, for I had seen no paper dropped. Dennis turned quickly, and picked up a letter which was lying on the platform behind him.
“I’m very much obliged, sir; thank you,” said Dennis, as he put the letter in his pocket.
“I never saw you drop that,” I exclaimed when we were safely out of earshot. “Did you?”
“There you are,” my friend cried triumphantly. “You were walking beside me and you didn’t spot it, and he was some distance away and he did; and you say he was half asleep.”
“I say, Den,” I exclaimed, laughing, “d’you think it’s going to be safe to travel on this train? I wonder where he’s going?”
Then we dismissed the man from our minds. The train was going in six minutes, and I joined the crowd round the rug and pillow barrow, and prepared to make myself comfortable. Leaving everything to the last minute, as most travellers do, we had a hurried stirrup-cup in view of the fact that I was about to “gang awa’,” and as the train glided out of the station Dennis turned to wire for my breakfast-basket at Crianlarich. The one thing that it is important to do when travelling on the West Highland Railway I had forgotten! We had not passed Potter’s Bar before I decided that it would be impossible to sleep, so I ferreted out the attendant and bribed him to put me into a first-class carriage. Better still, he showed me into a sleeper. I was dog-tired, and in ten minutes fell fast asleep. I awoke for a moment or two as the train snorted into a station and drew up. I dozed again for some time, and then the door of my sleeper opened and who should look in but “the American.”
“Say, I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed apologetically. “My mistake.”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Where are we now?” For the train was still standing.
“Edinburgh,” he answered. “Just leaving. Sorry to disturb you.”
I again assured him that there was no harm done, and he turned and left me, the tassels of his Jaeger dressing-gown trailing after him. Then I fell asleep again, and woke up as we left Whistlefield. I had finished my wretched ablutions – for an early morning wash on a train is always a wretched business – as we reached Crianlarich. I was not long in claiming my breakfast; and when the passengers in the refreshment-room had finished their coffee – which seems to be the time when the train is due to leave, and not vice-versâ, as might be expected – the guard was standing on the platform, flag in hand, on the point of blowing his whistle. Suddenly the head of the American shot out of the window of his carriage – no other expression describes it.
“Say, conductor,” he exclaimed angrily, “where’s my breakfast?”
Surely Dennis had been right about the nationality.
“What name might it be, sir?” asked the guard.
“Hilderman – J. G. Hilderman. Ordered by telegraph.”
“I’ll see, sir,” said the guard, dashing into the refreshment-room. It did not seem to matter when the train started; but, after a further heated argument, in which the official refused to wait while a couple of eggs were being fried, Mr. Hilderman was supplied with a pot of coffee, some cold ham, and dried toast, and we recommenced our belated journey. I reached Fort William and changed on to the Mallaig train, as did Mr. Hilderman, on whom, after the breakfast episode, I had begun to look with an affectionate and admiring regard. The man who can keep a train waiting in Great Britain while the guard gets him his breakfast must be very human after all. Most of the way on the beautiful journey through Lochaber I leaned with my head out of the window, drinking in the gorgeous air and admiring the luxurious scenery of the mountain side. But, in view of the hilly nature of the track and the quality of the coal employed, it is always a dangerous adventure on the West Highland Railway, and presently I found myself with a big cinder in my eye. I was trying to remove the cause of my discomfort, and at the same time swearing softly, I am afraid, when Hilderman came up.
“I guess I’m just the man you’re looking for,” he said. “Show me.”
In less time than it takes to tell the offending cinder was removed, and I was amazed at the delicacy and certainty of his touch. I thanked him profusely, and indeed I was really grateful to him. Naturally enough, we fell into conversation – the easy, broad conversation of two men who have never seen each other before and expect never to see each other again, but are quite willing to be friends in the meantime.
“Terrible news, this,” he said presently, pulling a copy of the Glasgow Herald from his pocket. “I suppose you got it at Fort William?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t leave the train. I wasn’t thinking of newspapers. What is it?”
“A state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from twelve o’clock last night.”
“Ah!” said I. “It has come, then.” And I was surprised that I had forgotten all about the war, which was actually the cause of my presence there. I noticed with some curiosity that Hilderman looked out of the window with a strangely tense air, his lips firmly pressed together, his eyes wide open and staring. He was certainly awake now. But in a moment he turned to me with a charming smile.
“You know, I’m an American,” he said. “But this hits me – hits me hard. There’s a calm and peaceful, friendly hospitality about this island of yours that I like – like a lot. My own country reminds me too much of my own struggles for existence. For nearly forty years I fought for breath in America, and, but that I like now and again to run over and have a look round, you can keep the place as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been about here now for a good many years – not just this part, for this is nearly new to me, but about the country – and I feel that this is my quarrel, and I should like to have a hand in it.”
“Perhaps America may join in yet,” I suggested.
“Not she,” he cried, with a laugh. “America! Not on your life. Why, she’s afraid of civil war. She don’t know which of her own citizens are her friends and which ain’t. She’s tied hand and foot. She can’t even turn round long enough to whip Mexico. Don’t you ever expect America to join in anything except family prayer, my boy. That’s safe. You know where you are, and it don’t matter if you don’t agree about the wording of a psalm. If an American was told off to shoot a German, he’d ten to one turn round and say: ‘Here, hold on a minute; that’s my uncle!’”
“You think all the Germans in the States prefer their fatherland to their adopted country, or are they most of them spies?”
“Spies?” said Hilderman, “I don’t believe in spies. It stands to reason there can’t be much spying done in any country. Over here, for instance, for every German policeman in this country – for that’s all a spy can be – there are about a thousand British policemen. What chance has the spy? You don’t seriously believe in them, do you?” he added, smiling, as he offered me a Corona cigar.
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. I didn’t want to argue with my good Samaritan. “There is no doubt a certain amount of spying done; but, of course, our policemen are hardly trained to cope with it. I daresay the whole business is very greatly exaggerated.”
“You bet it is, my boy,” he replied emphatically. “Going far?” he asked, suddenly changing the subject.
“North of Loch Hourn,” I answered.
“Oh!” said Hilderman, with renewed interest. “Glenelg?”
“I take the boat to Glenelg and then drive back,” I explained. I was in a mood to tell him just where I was going, and why, and all about myself; but I recollected, with an effort, that I was talking to a total stranger.
“Drive back?” he repeated after me, with a sudden return to his dreamy manner. Then, just as suddenly, he woke up again. “Where are we now?” he asked.
“Passing over Morar bridge,” I explained.
“Dear me – yes, of course!” he exclaimed, with a glance out of the window. “Well, I must pack up my wraps. Good-bye, Mr. Ewart; I’m so glad to have met you. Your country’s at war, and you look to me a very likely young man to do your best. Well, good-bye and good luck. I only wish I could join you.”
“I wish you could,” I replied heartily. “I shall certainly do my best. And many thanks for your kind assistance.”
And so we parted, and returned to our respective compartments to put our things together; for our journey – the rail part of it, at any rate – was nearly over. And it was not until long afterwards that I realised that he had called me by my name, and I had never told him what it was.
CHAPTER III.
MAINLY ABOUT MYRA
The train slowed down into Mallaig station. I thrilled with anticipation, for now I had only the journey on the boat, and Myra would be waiting for me at Glenelg. The train had hardly stopped when I seized my bag and jumped out on to the platform. The next instant I was nearly knocked back into the carriage again. A magnificent Great Dane had jumped at me with a deep bark of flattering welcome, and planted his paws on my shoulders.
“Sholto, my dear old man!” I cried in excitement, dropping my bag and looking round expectantly. It was Myra’s dog, and there, sure enough, was a beautiful vision of brown eyes and brown-gold hair, in a heather-coloured Burberry costume, running down the platform to meet me.
“Well – darling?” I said, as I met her half-way.
“Well?” she whispered, as she took my hand, and I looked into the depths of those wonderful eyes. Truly I was a lucky dog. The world was a most excellent place, full of delightful people; and even if I were an impecunious young barrister I was richer than Crœsus in the possession of those beautiful brown eyes, which looked on all the world with the gentle affection of a tender and indulgent sister, but which looked on me with – Oh! hang it all! – a fellow can’t write about these sort of things when they affect him personally. Besides, they belong to me – thank God!
“I got your telegram, dear,” said Myra, as we strolled out of the station behind the porter who had appropriated my bag. Sholto brought up the rear. He had too great an opinion of his own position to be jealous of me – or at any rate he was too dignified to show it – and he had always admitted me into the inner circle of his friendship in a manner that was very charming, if not a little condescending.
“Did you, darling?” I said, in reply to Myra’s remark.
“Yes; it was delivered first thing this morning, and father was very pleased about it.”
“Really!” I exclaimed. “I am glad. I was afraid he might be rather annoyed.”
“I was a little bit surprised myself,” she confessed, “though I’m sure I don’t know why I should be. Dad’s a perfect dear – he always was and he always will be. But he has been very determined about our engagement. When I told him you’d wired you were coming he was tremendously pleased. He kept on saying, ‘I’m glad; that’s good news, little woman, very good news. ’Pon my soul I’m doocid glad!’ He said you were a splendid fellow – I can’t think what made him imagine that – but he said it several times, so I suppose he had some reason for it. I was frightfully pleased. I like you to be a splendid fellow, Ron!”
I was very glad to hear that the old General was really pleased to hear of my visit. I had intended to stay at the Glenelg Hotel, as I could hardly invite myself to Invermalluch Lodge, even though I had known the old man all my life. Accordingly I took it as a definite sign that his opposition was wearing down when Myra told me I was expected at the house.
“And he said,” she continued, “that he never heard such ridiculous nonsense as your saying you were coming to the hotel, and that if you preferred a common inn to the house that had been good enough for him and his fathers before him, you could stop away altogether. So there!”
“Good – that’s great!” I said enthusiastically. “But did you come over by the boat from Glenelg, or what?”
“No, dear; I came in the motor-boat, so we don’t need to hang about the pier here. We can either go straight home or wait a bit, whichever you like. I wanted to meet you, and I thought you’d rather come back with me in the motor-boat than jolt about in the stuffy old Sheila.”
“Rather, dear; I should say I would,” said I – and a lot more besides, which has nothing to do with the story. Suddenly Myra’s motherly instinct awoke.
“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.
“Yes, dear – at Crianlarich. The only decent meal to be got on a railway in this country is a Crianlarich breakfast.”
“Well, in that case you’re ready for lunch. It’s gone twelve. I could do with something myself, incidentally, and I want to talk to you before we start for home. Let’s have lunch here.”
I readily agreed, and after calling Sholto, who was being conducted on a tour of inspection by the parson’s dog, we strolled up the hill to the hotel. As we entered the long dining-room we came upon Hilderman, seated at one of the tables with his back to us.
“Yes,” he was saying to the waiter, “I have been spending the week-end on the Clyde in a yacht. I joined the train at Ardlui this morning, and I can tell you – ”
I didn’t wait to hear any more. Rather by instinct than as a result of any definite train of thought, I led Myra quickly behind a Japanese screen to a small table by a side window. After all, it was no business of mine if Hilderman wished to say he had joined the train at Ardlui. He probably had his own reasons. Possibly Dennis was right, and the man was a detective. But I had seen him at King’s Cross and again at Edinburgh before we reached Ardlui, so I thought it might embarrass him if I walked in on the top of his assertion that he had just come from the Clyde. However, Myra was with me, which was much more important, and I dismissed Hilderman and his little fib from my mind.
“Ronnie,” said Myra, in the middle of lunch, “you haven’t said anything about the war.”
“No, dear,” I answered clumsily. “It – ” It was an astonishingly difficult thing to say when it came to saying it.
“And yet that was what you came to see me about?”
“Yes, darling. You see, I – ”
“I know, dear. You’ve come to tell me that you’re going to enlist. I’m glad, Ronnie, very glad – and very, very proud.”
Myra turned away and looked out of the window.
“I hate people who talk a lot about their duty,” I said; “but it obviously is my duty, and I know that’s what you would want me to do.”
“Of course, dear, I wouldn’t have you do anything else.” And she turned and smiled at me, though there were tears in her dear eyes. “And I shall try to be brave, very brave, Ronnie. I’m getting a big girl now,” she added pluckily, attempting a little laugh. And though, of course, we afterwards discussed the regiment I was to join, and how the uniform would suit me, and how you kept your buttons clean, and a thousand other things, that was the last that was said about it from that point of view. There are some people who never need to say certain things – or at any rate there are some things that never need be said between certain people.
After lunch we strolled round the “fish-table,” a sort of subsidiary pier on which the fish are auctioned, and listened to the excited conversations of the fish-curers, gutters, and fishermen. It was a veritable babel – the mournful intonation of the East Coast, the broad guttural of the Broomielaw, mingled with the shrill Gaelic scream of the Highlands, and the occasional twang of the cockney tourist. Having retrieved Sholto, who was inspecting some fish which had been laid out to dry in the middle of the village street, and packed him safely in the bows, we set out to sea, Myra at the engine, while I took the tiller. As we glided out of the harbour I turned round, impelled by some unknown instinct. The parson’s dog was standing at the head of the main pier, seeing us safely off the premises, and beside him was the tall figure of my friend J. G. Hilderman. As I looked up at him I wondered if he recognised me; but it was evident he did, for he raised his cap and waved to me. I returned the compliment as well as I could, for just then Myra turned and implored me not to run into the lighthouse.
“Someone you know?” she asked, as I righted our course.
“Only a chap I met on the train,” I explained.
“It looks like the tenant of Glasnabinnie, but I couldn’t be certain. I’ve never met him, and I’ve only seen him once.”
“Glasnabinnie!” I exclaimed, with a new interest. “Really! Why, that’s quite close to you, surely?”
“Just the other side of the loch, directly opposite us. A good swimmer could swim across, but a motor would take days to go round. So we’re really a long way off, and unless he turns up at some local function we’re not likely to meet him. He’s said to be an American millionaire; but then every American in these parts is supposed to have at least one million of money.”
“Do you know anything about him – what he does, or did?” I asked.
“Absolutely nothing,” she replied, “except, of course, the silly rumours that one always hears about strangers. He took Glasnabinnie in May – in fact, the last week of April, I believe. That rather surprised us, because it was very early for summer visitors. But he showed his good sense in doing so, as the country was looking gorgeous – Sgriol, na Ciche, and the Cuchulins under snow. I’ve heard (Angus McGeochan, one of our crofters, told me) he was an inventor, and had made a few odd millions out of a machine for sticking labels on canned meat. That and the fact that he is a very keen amateur photographer is the complete history of Mr. Hilderman so far as I know it. Anyway, he has a gorgeous view, hasn’t he? It’s nearly as good as ours.”
“He has indeed,” I agreed readily. “But I don’t think Hilderman can be very wealthy; no fishing goes with Glasnabinnie, there’s no yacht anchorage, and there’s no road to motor on. How does he get about?”
“He’s got a beautiful Wolseley launch,” said Myra jealously, “a perfect beauty. He calls her the Baltimore II. She was lying alongside the Hermione at Mallaig when we left. Oh! look up the loch, Ron! Isn’t it a wonderful view?”
And so the magnificent purple-gray summit of Sgor na Ciche, at the head of Loch Nevis, claimed our attention – (that and other matters of a personal nature) – and J. G. Hilderman went completely from our minds. Myra was a real Highlander of the West. She lived for its mountains and lochs, its rivers and burns, its magnificent coast and its fascinating animal life. She knew every little creek and inlet, every rock and shallow, every reef and current from Fort William to the Gair Loch. I have even heard it said that when she was twelve she could draw an accurate outline of Benbecula and North Uist, a feat that would be a great deal beyond the vast majority of grown-ups living on those islands themselves. As we turned to cross the head of Loch Hourn, Myra pointed out Glasnabinnie, nestling like a lump of grey lichen at the foot of the Croulin Burn. Anchored off the point was a small steam yacht, either a converted drifter or built on drifter lines.