The light was rapidly going and the wind was falling. In front lay a stretch of moor, seamed by black peat-hags, in some of which water glistened; beyond the moor rough heather-covered slopes ran up to the black hillcrest. A curlew whistled overhead, and the sharp cry of a grouse rose from the darkening heath. Except for this, it was very still and the landscape looked strangely desolate. Not far ahead a patch of roof showed faintly among some stunted ash-trees.
"A cothouse," said Andrew in surprise.
"We'll look at it," Whitney answered, and started for the building.
One end had fallen down, but half the thatch remained upon the bending rafters. The rest had gone, and it was plain that the cot had been abandoned for a long time. Crossing a ditch by a rotten plank, they stood knee-deep among withered nettles at the door, and the ruined walls struck a mournful note in the gathering dark.
"There's a track here," said Whitney. "I guess the sheep go in."
He struck a match as they entered, and, avoiding stones and fallen beams, they made for the door of an inner room. When they reached it, Whitney struck another match, and smiled as he held it up, for the light fell upon a single-cylinder motorcycle with a gun-case strapped to the carrier.
"Well," he said, "I expected this. If we cross the end of the hill going southeast, we would strike the sands somewhere abreast of the wreck?"
"Yes."
"High-water's about one o'clock. That means it's a big tide and, of course, runs out a long way on the ebb."
"Then the sands will be dry and there'll be no gutters to cross. Well, I guess it's a long walk, but we've got to make it. Take your overalls off."
Three or four minutes later they left the cothouse and struck across the heath. There was no track, but Andrew headed for a knoll on the mountain's sloping shoulder. After they left the level, the heather grew tall and strong, brushing about their knees and entangling their feet. Then there were awkward rabbit-holes and granite boulders scattered about, and they bruised their shins as they laboriously plodded upward. The light had almost gone, and there was nothing visible but the stretch of shadowy hillside in front.
Whitney heard Andrew breathing hard, and imagined that his injured leg was giving him trouble.
"Are we rushing it too much?" he asked.
"I can hold out until we get to the top, and I'll be all right then. It's gripping the brae with the side of my foot that bothers me."
He went on without slackening speed, and the slope grew easier and the light breeze keener. Then the stretch of heather which had shut off their view suddenly fell away, and they looked down through the soft darkness on to a vast, black plain. There was nothing to distinguish land from sea; but a faint cluster of lights that pricked the gloom like pin-points marked the English-shore, and farther off the flickering glare of blast-furnaces was reflected in the sky. In the middle distance, a twinkle showed where the Solway lightship guarded the fairway through the shoals; but there was no light near them, nor any sound except the distant murmur of the sea. They stood remote from the homes of men in the mountain solitude.
Andrew, stooping behind a mass of granite, struck a match and took out his watch.
"We haven't much time to spare. I wish I knew if the lightship yonder was still riding to the ebb," he said. "There's a burn somewhere below us and running water is generally a good guide down."
They went on, floundering through tangled heather and falling into rabbit-burrows, until the tinkle of water reached them softly. After that they wound downhill beside the growing burn, past brakes of thorn and hazel and over banks of stones, until a long wood led them to the road. Following the wood for a time they went down again through smooth pasture and turnip-fields and came to a wall that ran along the beach. The empty space beyond it looked black and lonely, and the mournful crying of wildfowl came out of the gloom, but at some distance a beam from a lighthouse cast its reflection upon the sloppy sand.
"Can you hit the wreck from here?" Whitney asked.
"I'll try," said Andrew. "It's a long way, and the tide must be on the turn."
They took off their boots, and as they launched out across the dark level the sand felt sharply cold. Here and there they splashed through pools, but for the most part the bank was ribbed with hard ridges. The shore soon vanished; Criffell's black bulk grew blurred and shapeless against the sky; and they had only the misty beam from the lighthouse for guide. Whitney, however, imagined that Andrew was going straight, which was comforting, when they came to a wide depression where water glimmered. He thought this was the channel that had stopped them before, and he felt somewhat uneasy as he waded in. There was now no boat they could retreat to on the other side of the wreck.
The water, however, hardly covered their ankles; and some time afterward Andrew touched Whitney's arm as a dim, formless mass rose from the sand. It got plainer as they cautiously approached it, their bare feet falling noiselessly, and in a minute or two they stopped and listened beside the wreck. There was no sound but the drip of water, and Andrew, grasping a broken beam, swung himself up. Whitney followed, his nerves tense, his muscles braced; and he held his breath when he dropped into the forecastle. The next moment a pale light sprang up, and he saw Andrew holding out a match. The feeble glow spread along the wet planks and filled the forecastle before the match went out, and Whitney was more relieved than disappointed to see that nobody else was there.
"We have missed him," he said. "Take my box; they're wax and burn better than the wooden kind."
Andrew struck another light, and it burned clearer. The candle they had used and replaced on the last visit had gone, but two or three matches floated in a pool. He picked them up and Whitney examined them closely.
"These are quite fresh," he said. "Looks as if they'd just been struck, though we can't be sure of that. Extra thick wax, same make as mine; I got the best I could, because I wanted them to light the bicycle lamp."
Then the match burned low, and Andrew threw it down.
"It proves nothing except that the man who used them wanted a good article. The make is well known, but in this part of the country you couldn't find it except at a tobacconist's."
"That's a point. Anything is good enough for a fisherman or a sailor to get a light with. The fellow who came here must have meant to have the best."
"After all, the matches don't tell us who he is," Andrew said slowly.
"They don't, but they may help us later. And now we'll hustle for the beach. It would be awkward if we found the tide running up the gutter."
They set off across the sands and waded through the channel without trouble. Reaching land, they put on their boots and laboriously struggled up the dark hill. Both were tired when they floundered down through the heather on the other side, but they found the boggy heath, and came at last to the cothouse. As they expected, the motorcycle was no longer there. They trudged on to the peat-stack, and shortly afterward Whitney started his machine, and with some difficulty kept out of the ruts and ditches until he turned into the highroad.
CHAPTER XVII
THE MATCHBOX
The dead leaves were driving round Appleyard before a boisterous wind that lashed the granite walls with bitter rain. A fire had been lighted in the drawing-room, and Staffer sat talking to his sister. Mrs. Woodhouse was a quiet woman, generally content to remain in the background; and the influence she exercised at Appleyard was, as a rule, negative. She rarely claimed authority, even over her daughter, or openly interfered, but the things she disapproved of were seldom done. Now her usually placid face was firm.
The drawing-room door was open, and she watched Williamson, who stood near Elsie in the hall. His pose was gracefully easy as he smiled at a remark of the girl's. He looked suave and well-bred, but Mrs. Woodhouse's expression hardened.
"Will that man be here long?" she asked, when Williamson and Elsie moved away.
Staffer gave her a quick glance. It was desirable that his relations with Williamson should be cordial, but of late his guest had shown some reserve. It was so slight that Staffer, knowing of no cause for their disagreement, felt it instinctively rather than noticed it by any particular sign. For all that, something had come between them, and he wondered whether his sister was to blame for this.
"It looks as if you didn't wish him to stay," he said.
"I don't. His society is not good for Dick."
Staffer smiled, though he was puzzled. On his last visit Williamson had rather avoided Dick.
"He can't do him much harm; and, after all, it does not look as if Dick would marry Elsie, as we once thought was possible."
"No; Elsie will not marry him, and I would not wish it, if she were willing."
Staffer was somewhat surprised.
"Then why need you bother about him?" he said. "If he indulges in foolish extravagances, it's his affair."
She looked at Staffer with a listless expression.
"I don't think you would understand; but I do not want him to come to harm."
"Well, there's something else to talk about. It won't be long before Dick is his own master, and we must leave Appleyard. This will make a big difference, because our means are small and Elsie has been taught no profession. What will she do then, unless she marries somebody?"
"I do not know," Mrs. Woodhouse answered in a placid tone.
Staffer mastered his impatience, for his sister sometimes baffled him, and there was a matter of importance about which he wished to sound her.
"I'm sorry you seem to have a prejudice against Williamson. Is it only on Dick's account?"
"No; I feel that he may bring trouble to us all. We were happier before his visits began. There is a difference now at Appleyard, and I don't like mystery. Why does he call himself Williamson?"
"Ah! You imagine it is not his name?"
"I have known for some time that it is not."
Staffer felt disturbed. His sister had been shrewder than he expected, and he wondered whether anybody else shared her suspicions; but her statement gave him the lead he wanted.
"Well," he said, "I dare say you can see that to use his proper name just now might make things unpleasant for him."
"He did not use it when he first came here, and nobody would have minded it then."
"I'm not certain; these Scots are prejudiced against foreigners; but it's hard to see why you should dislike the man because he is one of us." He paused and looked at her reproachfully. "Have you forgotten the people you belong to, Gretchen, and where you were born?"
Mrs. Woodhouse's face was troubled, but there was a hint of firmness in her voice as she answered.
"I have not forgotten. But when I married I knew I must choose between my country and my husband's; one could not belong to both. I chose his; his people became mine. He was a good man—I think there are not many like him—and I was happy. When he died, I tried to bring up his daughter as he would have her."
"You succeeded. Elsie is a Scot," Staffer remarked with a sneer.
Something in her face warned him that his sister was not to be moved. It was seldom she had shown him her deeper feelings, but she had a mother's heart, against which he could not prevail. She might have made him a useful if not altogether conscious ally, but that idea must be dropped. He had been beaten by a fundamental quality in human nature; and he was half afraid he had said too much.
"Well," he added, "I'll be content if you treat Williamson as you would any other guest. You needn't go beyond this, if you'd rather not."
She turned and gave him a steady glance.
"I wish you had nothing to do with him, Arnold—I feel he's dangerous. But I will be polite to him, so long as he does not harm Dick."
"That's all I want," said Staffer, turning away.
He entered the billiard-room where the others had gathered. Elsie was knitting, Dick and Andrew were playing, and Williamson stood looking on. Staffer thought this strange, because Andrew did not play well, and Williamson had generally engaged Dick in a game for a stake.
"Making stockings now!" Staffer said to Elsie. "Whom is this lot for?"
"The Border regiment."
"The men who're lucky enough to get them ought to feel flattered," Williamson interposed.
"The brave soldiers are entitled to the best we can send them," Elsie said staunchly.
Williamson carelessly examined the work.
"This is very neat. Knitting's an essentially Scottish accomplishment. It's useful, which no doubt appeals to a race of utilitarian character."
"That's why I like it," Elsie declared. "I am Scottish in all my habits and feelings, you know."
Whitney thought there was something defiant in her voice, but he could not tell whether Williamson noticed it.
When the game was finished, Whitney took out a cigarette and walked to a match-holder, which he knew was empty.
"Will you give me a light?" he asked Williamson.
"Certainly," said Williamson, producing a well-made gun-metal case, which he immediately returned to his pocket. "I think I used the last there, but I have a box somewhere."
He handed Whitney an ordinary card box containing pine matches.
"Thank you."
As Whitney returned the box he noticed that Andrew was watching them. Then he glanced quickly at Elsie, but she was quietly knitting, with her eyes on the stitches.
A few minutes afterward a servant brought in the afternoon edition of a Glasgow newspaper. Staffer glanced at the front page and then sat down near one of the lamps. There was a certain deliberation in his movements that Whitney noticed, though he admitted that he might not have done so had not the matchbox incident roused him to suspicious vigilance. He thought Staffer was waiting for something, and in a moment or two Williamson left Dick and turned toward him.
Then Staffer folded back the newspaper.
"The A. & P. liner Centaur has gone down in the North Channel," he announced calmly.
Whitney started, Dick abruptly put down his cue, and Andrew's face grew hard.
"Do you mean that she was blown up?" Elsie asked with a note of horror in her voice.
"It looks so; but there's not much news yet."
"The captain of the Clyde coaster Gannet reports that when he was off the Skerries near dark one of the big A. & P. liners passed him at some distance to the north. It was blowing fresh, and hazy, but when the vessel was almost out of sight he noticed a dense cloud of smoke. He ran to the box on the bridge-rail, where he kept his glasses, but when he got them out the liner had disappeared. He steered for the spot where he had last seen her, but it was dark when he reached it, and after steaming about for some time, and seeing nothing but a quantity of wreckage, he made for Rathlin and megaphoned the lighthouse-keepers before proceeding. An unconfirmed report from Larne states that a fishing craft passed a steamer's lifeboat, but lost her in the dark. The Centaur, a large and nearly new steamer, left Montreal with wheat and a number of passengers eight days ago."
Nobody spoke for a minute after he put down the newspaper, and Whitney lighted a cigarette to cover his excitement. The news was startling, but he thought it did not take Staffer or Williamson by surprise. There was something curious in their expression. Andrew's face, however, had grown very stern; and Elsie's was angrily flushed.
"This is not war, but murder!" she exclaimed. "The men who blow up unarmed vessels ought to be severely punished."
"When you catch them," Staffer answered. "I expect that it will prove difficult; and I'm afraid we must be prepared for some nasty knocks."
"It's rather exasperating to be hit hard where you flatter yourself you're secure against attack," Williamson remarked. "The Admiralty must have thought the North Channel safe."
"It is except against treachery," Elsie declared. "Don't you think so, Andrew?"
"I do," said Andrew quietly. "It's narrow and commanded by lighthouses and coastguard stations; though perhaps, in a way, its narrowness is a danger. But we must see that this kind of thing doesn't happen again."
"How would you try to prevent it?" Staffer asked, with a calmness that was somewhat overdone.
Whitney gave Andrew a careless glance, and was relieved to note that his grim look had vanished. Andrew's views on this subject would be worth having, but it was obvious that he did not mean to state them.
"I'm not a navy officer," he answered and turned to Elsie. "One feels that it won't bear talking about."
"Yes," she agreed, with a flash in her eyes. "There's no use in giving way to rage when one is hurt. The best one can do after a treacherous blow is to keep very quiet and wait until the time comes to strike back."
"There's a true Scot!" laughed Staffer. "You're a stubborn, unemotional race. I wouldn't like to fall into your hands if I'd wronged your friends."
"The Scots are just: they repay both injuries and favors."
Then, by general consent, they talked about something else; and after a time the others went out, and Whitney and Elsie were left alone. He suspected that she had meant this to happen, but he was surprised by her first question.
"Have you a bad memory?"
"I like to think that it's as good as my neighbor's."
"Then it's strange you lighted a cigarette with a match from your own box after asking Mr. Williamson for his."
"Well, by jove!" Whitney exclaimed. "Do you think he noticed it?"
Elsie's eyes twinkled.
"No; he had his back toward you when you began the next cigarette. But why did you ask for a match when you had some?"
Whitney looked at her frankly.
"I'd rather you didn't press me for an answer," he said.
"Why? Do you mean you wouldn't tell me?"
"Yes. And I shouldn't like to refuse."
Elsie smiled.
"You're not a good plotter. It was easy to catch you out."
"So it seems. But if I'm not as smart as I ought to be, I mean well."
"I don't doubt it, and I have some reason for trusting you. I think you're a good friend of Dick's and Andrew's; and their friends are mine."
"Thank you! But Williamson's by way of being a friend of Dick's."
"Oh, no; he only pretends he is. You must know this."
"Suppose we admit it. Don't you think Andrew's able to take care of his cousin?"
"I'm glad he has your help."
"Perhaps it's more important that he has yours. We're three to one, and that ought to be enough."
Elsie's face was calm, but she was silent for a moment, and Whitney thought she was trying to hide some embarrassment.
"Tell me," she said, "was it on Dick's account you asked Williamson for a match?"
"No; that is, not directly. I can't tell you anything more; but since we are friends, can you arrange that there are no matches put beside the bedroom candles?"
"The man is our guest," Elsie said with some hesitation. "Still perhaps one mustn't be fastidious when—"
"When there's a good deal at stake—Dick's welfare, for one thing."
"Very well," Elsie promised.
An hour later the party broke up. They used oil-lamps at Appleyard, and at night a row of candles in old-fashioned brass holders were placed upon a table on the bedroom landing. As a rule, a few matchboxes were put beside them; but sometimes this was overlooked.
Williamson went upstairs first, and stopped on reaching the table.
"Matches run out here, too!" he said to Whitney, who was close behind him. "Shall I light your candle?"
Whitney's hand moved toward his pocket, but he remembered in time.
"Thanks!" he answered carelessly. "Perhaps you had better light the lot."
Williamson took out the gun-metal box and struck a small pine match.
"I filled it up again," he remarked. "I always like to have matches handy in an old-fashioned house."
"It's a good plan," Whitney agreed, and went away with his candle.
Five minutes later he opened Andrew's door and found him standing by the window.
"Come in! I'm thinking about that Canadian boat."
"So I expected," Whitney answered meaningly. "But we'll take the other matter first. Seems to me they're connected."
"The matchbox matter? I don't know whether it was a clever trick or not, but I'd like to hear your views."
"Well," Whitney laughed, "I'm not so smart as I thought. Elsie soon tripped me up."
Andrew frowned.
"Then she saw you? She understands?"
"Something. I don't know how much, but I'm free to admit that she's cleverer than either of us. However, one thing's obvious: Williamson took care to have a box that would hold a good many matches and keep them dry. It's curious that he didn't shake it before he said it was empty. Anyhow, he overdid the thing. If he had given me a thick wax match like those we found on board the wreck, it wouldn't have proved much; while his anxiety to show he used the small pine kind strikes me as significant."
"Elsie must be kept out of all this," Andrew said firmly.
"Then I guess you'll have to keep her out; I'm not up to Miss Woodhouse's mark. Did you notice Staffer's attempt to learn if you knew much about the North Channel?"
"Yes; but we'll let that go for the present. The A. & P. boat was mined or torpedoed. What are we to do?"
"To begin with," he said, "you must make up your mind right now how far you are willing to go. You're proud of being a Johnstone, and put the good name of the family pretty high."
"Yes," answered Andrew slowly; "that is true. These, however, are personal reasons, and don't come first. You can take it for granted that I'm ready to go as far as is needful for the good of my country, regardless of—of any one at Appleyard."
"Then we must try to find Rankine and tell him what we suspect."
"Very well," said Andrew. "We'll sail on the ebb in the morning."
Whitney made a sign of agreement and went away. Andrew had not hesitated about his decision, but Whitney knew it had cost him something.
CHAPTER XVIII
A CONFERENCE AT SEA
North Barrule's blunt cone and the range of Manx hills beyond it cut, harshly blue, against an angry blaze of saffron that had broken out when the rain stopped and was now beginning to fade. The sun had sunk behind the island, and the sky to the northwest was black as ink, but the tall cliffs of the Mull of Galloway were traced across the storm-cloud in a neutral-tinted smear. Between them and the Rowan stretched a belt of lead-colored sea, which, in the foreground, rose in hollow-fronted walls with livid white summits that overweighted them until they curled and broke in cataracts of foam.
It was blowing hard, and threatened to blow harder soon, but Andrew's wet face was tranquil as he sat on the weather coaming, braced against the strain of the helm. Whitney was in the cockpit, where he could avoid the worst of the spray, but he was cold and sore from twenty-four hours of savage lurching. Clouds of spray drove across the boat, striking the canvas and blowing out to lee under the boom, but some fell short and splashed upon Whitney's lowered head. The Rowan, beating to windward, progressed in jerks and plunges, nearly stopping with a shock now and then as her bows sank into a comber. Whitney thought she could not carry her shortened canvas long; but their port was to windward, and they could not ease her much if they wished to reach it.
"She's ramming them pretty badly," he remarked, as a white sea boiled across the deck. "I suppose you'd find her hard to steer if I lowered the staysail?"
"Yes; she makes my arms ache now. Still, if it doesn't blow much worse in the next two hours, we'll find smoother water to lee of the island." Something on the horizon caught Andrew's eye. "Get me the glasses," he added.
Whitney went below to look for them, and lighted the cabin lamp. The floor and beams were steeply inclined, and he had to brace his feet against the centerboard trunk. The narrow cabin throbbed with a muffled uproar, and water trickled in. There was a pool that splashed about where the floor boards met the locker. The leather case of the glasses had swollen, and he spent a minute or two in opening it, though he made the best speed he could. They had been searching for Rankine's vessel in weather that had tried their nerve and skill. Once or twice it had looked as if they must run for shelter, but the breeze had moderated a trifle, and Andrew had held on. Now, however, he was making for Ramsey, to Whitney's keen satisfaction.
Andrew wound the tiller-line round one hand as he put the glasses to his eyes. He saw what he had expected: two slender spars and a funnel, both sharply slanted, that rose above the back of a distant sea. Then a patch of dark hull swung into sight, and vanished again.
"The survey boat," he said, giving Whitney the glasses. "She must be near the edge of King William's Bank, and we'll find an ugly sea running there. You'd better start the pump."
It was hard work, for when Whitney unscrewed the plug on deck the sea poured down the pipe to meet the water he forced out, and the boat's wild plunges threw him against the coaming; but he persevered. As they were likely to find the sea worse, she must be cleared of water before more came on board. It was some time before the pump sucked and only froth came up; then Whitney precariously balanced himself on the cabin-top with his hand upon the boom while he looked about.
Every now and then the straining storm-jib plunged into a sea that curled in foam across the bows, throwing showers of spray into the hollow of the staysail. Then the bowsprit swung high above the turmoil and the water blew away in streams from the canvas while a frothy cataract poured aft down the uplifted deck. When he glanced to windward the spray lashed his face, but he distinguished a rolling steamer some distance off. There was no smoke about her funnel, and after watching her for a few moments he did not think she moved.
"Lying head to sea," he said to Andrew. "Rankine might as well run into the harbor: he won't do much sounding to-night."
"That's plain. It doesn't look as if he thought sounding his most important job. Haul down the staysail."
Whitney scrambled forward, and when he let go the halyard he dropped on hands and knees. The straining sail would not run down the wire to which it was fastened, and he must cross the narrow deck to free it. He did not want to go; for the Rowan buried her bows as she plunged, and the foam boiled over them a foot in depth; but the whitening of the sea to windward showed that a savage squall was on its way. He reached the inboard end of the bowsprit and held fast while a comber washed across the rail, and then, rising half upright, he seized the line that hung from the head of the sail. The loosened canvas thrashed him; he was swung to and fro, in danger of going overboard; but he held on until the sail came down with a run and fell on to his knees.
The plunges were not quite so vicious when he got back to the cockpit, but the alteration in the sail-spread made steering difficult, and Andrew strained against the pull of the tiller-line as he drove her through the squall.
In the meantime, the Rowan had drawn nearer to the steamer, which now lay close ahead, rolling until her deck sloped like a roof, and then lurching back with her streaming side lifted high above the sea. Andrew went about and then ran close to leeward, where they checked the Rowan by hauling her jib aback. A man in oilskins leaned out from the steamer's bridge, and the fading light touched his wet face.
"It's Rankine," said Andrew. "We must try to make him hear."
The next moment a shout came down across the broken seas that rolled between the vessels.
"Yacht, ahoy! What d'you want?"
"To see you!" Andrew answered, throwing his voice to windward with all his force. "Important!"
Rankine steadied himself against the rail, with his glasses at his eyes.
"The Rowan; Mr. Johnstone! Could you jump on board our gig?"
"Can't leave the boat!" shouted Andrew, letting her forge ahead a few yards nearer.
Rankine made a sign of comprehension.
"Very well. Follow us into shelter!"
Andrew waved his arm, and, trimming the jib over, drove the Rowan ahead. As he did so, the steamer's screw splashed round half out of water, and she slowly turned toward the north.
"That's not the way to Ramsey," Whitney grumbled.
"No," said Andrew. "I guess he has some reason for not going there. He means to run in behind the Mull, though it's farther off."
Whitney frowned as he glanced across the wild stretch of foaming water toward a twinkling stream of light. He was numbed and wet; it was now getting dark and the bitter wind seemed freshening to a gale; but Andrew meant to follow the steamer, and there was nothing to be said. The only comfort was that their change of course brought the wind farther aft and the Rowan would sail fast.
Rankine's crew hung out a stern light as their vessel left the yacht, and Whitney, getting down in the cockpit, tried to dodge the spray while she rolled and tumbled across the high beam-sea. He was sorry for Andrew, who must sit on the coaming amid the spray; though he imagined that his comrade would be sufficiently occupied to make him careless of the wet and cold.
As a matter of fact, Andrew mechanically avoided the rush of the foaming combers, for he was thinking hard. He shrank from the meeting he had sought, because he knew he was badly equipped for the difficult part he must play. He suspected Williamson of practises which must, at any cost, be stopped, since it was unthinkable that a traitor should make use of Appleyard. This was bad; but it was worse to know that Staffer was acting as Williamson's confederate.
The trouble was that if Andrew exposed the men, the innocent would suffer. Staffer was Mrs. Woodhouse's brother, and Andrew pitied the quiet woman. Then there was Elsie, whom Staffer had certainly treated well. She would be crushed by shame if she learned his share in the plot. Andrew knew her well enough to feel sure of this. Elsie was true as steel; if he told her his suspicions, she would urge him to do his duty. Still, she would suffer; and part of Staffer's punishment would fall on her. It would not be forgotten that she was the niece of a foreign spy; and her mother might be suspected of complicity.
It was a painful situation; for Andrew gladly would have made any personal sacrifice that might save the girl a pang. He must try to find a way of doing his duty without involving her; in some way he must warn Rankine and yet keep back part of what he knew. This was a repugnant course, and he frowned as he drove the dripping boat across the foaming sea.
At times the steamer's stern light almost faded out, but it grew brighter again, and Andrew knew that Rankine was waiting for him. It was now blowing hard, and the combers looked very steep and angry, though he could no longer distinguish them until they broke close to the yacht. He imagined that they were stirred up by a strong tide, and several pinnacles of rock rose from deep water in the neighborhood. He hoped Rankine knew their position as he followed the steamer's light.
At last the sea got smoother and, instead of breaking, ran in a long, disturbed swell. The wind no longer hove the boat down with a steady pressure, but lightened until she swung nearly upright and then fell upon her in furious squalls that sent her staggering along with her lee deck deep in the foam. A lofty black ridge towered above her port side, and Andrew knew they were behind the Mull of Galloway. The water, however, was too deep, and the tide too strong for them to bring up there, and he supposed Rankine knew of a safe anchorage.
After a time he heard a whistle, and the light ahead stopped; then there was a roar of running chain, and as he luffed up a shout reached him.
"Let go and give her plenty scope!"
The chain was nearly all out before Andrew thought she had enough, and while she rolled and tumbled on the swell a splash of oars came out of the dark. Then a white gig loomed up alongside, and he and Whitney jumped on board as the crew backed away. They had to wait a minute or two close to the steamer's side, until a smooth undulation lapped the lurching hull, when they seized the ladder and scrambled up.
Rankine took them into a small, teak-paneled room with a brass stove in a corner. It was remarkably neat, though a cushioned locker, a small table, and two camp-chairs comprised the furniture. Nautical instruments occupied a rack, and a large chart of the Irish Sea was spread upon the table. Rankine put a bottle of wine and some cigarettes on the chart, and then hung up his wet oilskins.
"We're safe here so long as the wind keeps to the west; and I can give you a berth if your cabin's wet," he said.
"No, thanks," replied Andrew. "It's an exposed coast."
He tasted the wine Rankine poured out and lighted a cigarette. Whitney said nothing, and there was silence for a time. Rankine waited, with a polite smile.
"What are you doing near King William's Bank?" Andrew asked presently; and the others knew that his question was more to the purpose than appeared.
"Taking bearings and sounding, until the sea got up. I've made one or two interesting discoveries about that shoal."
Although he sympathized with Andrew, Whitney felt amused, for he saw that Rankine would do nothing to help him.
"You gave us a long run," Andrew said. "We would have got better shelter in Ramsey Bay."
"That's true. I preferred this place."
Andrew frowned at the chart, as if he did not know how to go on; and Whitney came to his rescue.
"I guess it suits you better to keep away from port; you don't want to be seen and talked about."
Rankine smiled.
"Am I mistaken in suggesting that we don't make much progress. Now, after meeting you at Craigwhinnie and inviting you to come on board, it's a satisfaction to find you have taken me at my word; but if you have any other reason for the visit, I'm at your command. I understood this was so."
"The matter is important, and we want to feel we're justified in talking about it," Whitney replied. "In fact, if your work's confined to surveying, we'd rather you regarded us as casual guests."
"Then I think you can take it that my job doesn't end there. I'm still a navy officer, though I'm now assisting the Trinity House."
Whitney laughed.
"Well, I guess that's as much as one could expect you to admit. British official caution is a remarkable thing." He turned to Andrew. "You'd better tell him what we've seen."
Andrew began with their adventures on the sands when the lamp went out, and then mentioned the signal lights on Barennan Crag and what they had discovered on board the wreck. He told the story well, adding particulars that had escaped Whitney's observation, and Rankine followed him closely on the chart.
He looked up with frank appreciation when Andrew had finished.
"I don't think I've ever heard as clear and concise a report before. May I suggest that you're rather wasting your talents? You ought to be in the navy."
"I had to leave the army," Andrew replied, coloring. "But that's not what we have to talk about."
"No," agreed Rankine, and was silent for a while.
Whitney watched him with tranquil interest. The teak-paneled room was warm and bright, and after long exposure to numbing cold it was soothing to feel himself getting warm and drowsy; though the men still held his attention. The navy officer was, no doubt, the cleverer of the two, but Whitney thought he recognized a strong similarity in their characters. They were resolute, quiet, and capable, and he felt sure of their honesty. Rankine's face was now gravely thoughtful, but Andrew's wore a troubled frown, and Whitney imagined he recognized that the difficult part of the interview had not yet been reached.
"What you have discovered seems to have one of two meanings," Rankine said. "It may indicate a signaling of military and political news, which, strictly speaking, is not my business; or it may have some bearing on the loss of the A. & P. liner, and perhaps lead to similar attacks."
"Which would be your business," Whitney drawled.
"I can't talk about that; but Mr. Johnstone did right in telling me," Rankine answered, and turned to Andrew. "Have you told any one else?"
"No." There was a curious quietness in Andrew's voice which showed Whitney that he had decided on his course.
"Why not? If my first surmise is correct, it's a matter for the military authorities."
"It seems to me the thing's not ripe. I have nothing but vague suspicions to go upon."
"Then you suspect somebody?"
"Yes."
Rankine looked at him in silence for a few moments.
"I suppose you mean to follow up the clue you've got?" he then asked.
"You may take that for granted," Andrew answered.
"And if you find your suspicions right?"
"When I'm certain of that, I'll act; but not before."
"Well, you no doubt recognize the responsibility you're taking. There are people appointed to investigate these things who could act with greater skill and force."
"I see that," Andrew replied quietly. "And when I think the time has come, I'll go to them, or you."
"But you mean to decide for yourself whether it has come or not?"
"Exactly; I must decide."
Rankine looked hard at him, knitting his brows.
"I cannot tell you what my orders are," he said; "but you put me in an awkward position. I may do wrong in not reporting our conversation."
"Even if you did report it, I should stick to the line I've taken. If it led to my arrest, that would, of course, prevent my watching the coast—and I can do that as well as you."
"Better; for you wouldn't be suspected. Well, as I see you must be indulged, I'll tell you how to find me when you have something more to say. You must be careful to follow my instructions."
"Then write them down."
"I think not; I'm rather straining my authority in giving them to you at all, and secrecy is important."
Whitney got up.
"Perhaps I ought to remind you that I'm not a British subject," he said.
Rankine smiled.
"Since you are in Mr. Johnstone's confidence, you may remain. He won't mind my saying that, so far as strictly nautical matters go, he's well qualified to deal with them, but there are touches about what he told me that seem to show he has had your help. Now you must exactly follow these directions—"
He told them how they could learn his movements and send him word.
"That is all," he concluded. "If you think the weather permits it, I'll be glad to keep you on board over night."
Andrew opened the door, and the bitter draught that swept in lifted the chart on the table and swirled about the room. They heard the surf beat upon a rocky beach and the wind scream in the shrouds.
"No, thanks," he said. "It's not a night to leave the boat."
Rankine went out with them and gave an order. Half-seen men ran aft and dropped into the dark from the vessel's rail, and presently the gig lay tossing abreast of the gangway. Whitney looked at the warm, well-lighted deckhouse with regret, and then, buttoning his oilskins, followed Andrew down into the boat.
CHAPTER XIX
A WARNING
Staffer and Williamson sat in the library at Appleyard. It was getting late, and the rest of the household were in bed. Williamson had gone to his room with the others, but afterward had crept down again quietly. He had arrived that evening, but had found it difficult to get any private conversation with his host without making his wish to do so rather marked; for he imagined that Miss Woodhouse was watching him; and Whitney was constantly about. Now, however, he had said all he thought needful, and he wondered why Staffer did not let him go.
The library was spacious and was lighted only by a shaded lamp on a table near them. The polished floor gleamed like ice in the illuminated circle, but everything outside this was dim, and Staffer's face was in the shadow. The fire in the big hearth had sunk, and a pale-blue flame that gave no light played about the embers of the hardwood logs. The room was very quiet and getting cold.
"You'll be in town next week," Staffer said. "Can you find a good excuse for taking Dick? A boxing or billiard match, for example."
"I don't know of anything of the kind."
"Then you surprise me. You belong to one or two smart sporting clubs."
"Sporting events are not popular just now."
"There's always something going on; and if it's semi-private, so much the better. When one is as young as Dick, a little mystery is inciting, and it's flattering to feel oneself a privileged person."
"No doubt. For all that, I haven't heard of any attractive fixture; and if I invented one that didn't come off, it would make the game obvious, even to Dick."
"I suppose this means you don't want to take him," Staffer suggested. "Let's be frank."
"Then you are anxious that he should go?"
"For one thing, it looks as if you had rather held Dick off lately. This is against our plans. Then, if Dick's away, Andrew and his American friend will leave. It would be safer not to have them about."
"Your last reason's good; in fact, it's better than the other," Williamson said dryly. "I'm going to take no further part in exploiting Dick."
Staffer frowned.
"That resolve will cost you something. What has led you to make it?"
"The thing is getting dangerous. We can't afford to run an unnecessary risk, you know."
"That's true, but I don't see where the danger lies."
Williamson pondered. He had acted as Staffer's tool in leading Dick into extravagance; but Staffer had not been straight with him. Besides, if he now explained that Mackellar was suspicious, it would look as if he had turned against his confederate and tried to make terms with the bank agent.
"Dick has friends who would carefully investigate matters if he had to admit his debts, and they might find out enough to cause us trouble. Then, we're engaged in another business of first importance that can't be neglected while we make plans for our private benefit. If we fail, the consequences would be unpleasant—to say the least."
Staffer laughed. Williamson wished he could see his face, for his amusement had a hint of a threat.
"Remarkably unpleasant! As it happens, you haven't met with much success of late. Another man whom I needn't mention brought off the last big stroke."
"It was not my fault; things have been dead against me, as you know."
"So it seems! But our employers expect results, not excuses." Staffer paused and resumed: "As you have been unlucky, I thought you might find some advantage in helping me with Dick."
Williamson saw that Staffer's remarks were connected. He was being warned, and asked to think over his refusal; but he stood his ground.
"The advantage doesn't counterbalance the danger," he said.
"Well, I suppose that is for you to decide. Perhaps you are wise in concentrating on your particular business. Our employers are liberal when they're served well, but not as a rule indulgent when a post is unsatisfactorily filled."
Williamson was silent for a moment. Staffer was, in a sense, his superior officer; but for all that, he was expected to use his judgment, and he foresaw danger for both if he meddled with Dick. Still, Staffer was powerful and had given him a significant hint.
"I don't think our employers have much to complain of," Williamson said; "and we must try to work together as far as possible."
"Just so," Staffer answered, getting up.
They separated apparently on good terms; but they were conscious of mutual distrust.
The next morning Whitney, after trying to get into range of a flock of curlew feeding among the sands, threw his gun upon his shoulder and set out for the Rowan. The sun was bright and the breeze fresh, and after opening the skylights to ventilate the boat, he went below to see if their blankets were damp. While he was busy he heard a foot on deck, and Marshall, the fisherman, came down the ladder. He visited the yacht now and then; and Whitney at once got out the whisky bottle.
"Help yourself, but you'll excuse my not joining you," he said. "It's rather early in the morning, and I reckon my nerves aren't as good as yours."
Marshall poured out a liberal portion and regarded him with a twinkle.
"I'm thinking they canna' be bad since ye're shipmate with Mr. Andrew. He's no' the man I'd sail with if I was fleyt o' the sea."
"Well, he is pretty daring; but he's cautious, too, and knows exactly what he's doing. That makes a difference."
"Ay," agreed Marshall; "Andrew Johnstone's a by-ordinar' good seaman; but ye may run a risk ye canna' see. Tide-rips and sudden blows are bad, but they're no' the only dangers."
Whitney lighted a cigarette. It was plain that the old fellow had a warm liking for Andrew, and Whitney imagined he meant to give him a hint of some kind.
"I wish you'd tell me what you mean," he said. "You want to remember that I'm an American and not used to dark remarks. In fact, it's more or less my habit to say what I think."
"Ye'll find it expensive whiles," Marshall rejoined with a chuckle. "Onyway, ye're a friend o' Mr. Johnstone's?"
"I believe so. It's a sure thing that I like him."
"Then he'll maybe need ye. It's no' an easy job he has. Yon two at Appleyard are kittle-cattle, and would be better for watching."
"Why don't you tell me what they're after?"
"For yea thing, I dinna ken, but I'm certain it's naething good."
Whitney made a gesture of resignation.
"This is a pretty hard country for a stranger to get along in. You're such a blamed cautious people that nobody can guess what you think. Why don't you give my partner or Dick a hint, if you believe there's something wrong?"
"There's aye a rizzon," Marshall replied with a grin. "Mr. Andrew mightna' believe me, and Mr. Dick would let it oot to Staffer. It's no' wise to offend the gentry, mair particularly your landlord, when a salmon noo and then comes by accident into your flounder net or ye chance upon a hare sitting ower close in her form."
"But Dick would not be hard on you, and he'll be your landlord soon."
"That's no' what Mr. Staffer's thinking," said Marshall meaningly.
Whitney gave him a steady glance, knitting his brows.
"My partner will get Appleyard if Dick dies."
"Ay, that's supposed to be the way o' it; but Mr. Dick has debts that would have to be paid. Then Mr. Staffer's acting baillie for the estate, and it wouldna' suit him weel to see Mr. Andrew get it."
"You mean he's a dangerous man?"
"Ye should ken. I'm thinking ye're intelligent, and ye're Mr. Andrew's friend."
"I suppose that's a compliment, and I must try to deserve it," Whitney smiled.
Marshall poured out another drink and then went away, leaving Whitney in a thoughtful mood.
The old fellow's remarks were not clear, but two points appeared: he thought Andrew was running some personal risk, and that Staffer might put an obstacle in the way of his inheriting Appleyard. It was difficult to see how Staffer could do so, even if he could take advantage of Dick's extravagance in such a way as to give him a claim on the estate; but suppose Andrew did not live to demand his rights? Whitney remembered that his comrade had been in grave danger when the gray car swerved in the glen, and again when the light went out on Mersehead sands. That Dick shared the danger on both occasions might, of course, be coincidence; but it might have a very sinister meaning. Whitney felt disturbed about it; but he decided that as his suspicions might be unfounded and the matter was delicate, he would not warn his friends, and must be satisfied with keeping a keen watch on Staffer.
One morning shortly after this Williamson picked his way across the moss at the foot of Criffell as day was breaking. He was tired and hungry, but, even at the risk of missing his breakfast, he did not want to arrive at Dumfries too soon. Dawn was late now and he must not give the hotel people cause to wonder why he had set out long before it was light.
The black mass of the mountain rose between him and the east with a flush of pink above its sloping shoulder; the rolling country to the west was shadowy, and dry tufts of wild cotton glimmered a ghostly white among the dark-peat-hags. There had been light frost for a few days, but it had gone, and a raw wind blew in Williamson's face. The ground was getting soft, the rushes he brushed through were beaded with moisture, and now and then half-thawed ice crackled beneath his wet boots. Still, as he did not wish to loiter about Dumfries, he went on leisurely.
When he got over the fence, he found the loaning softer than he expected, and on reaching the cothouse he decided that it would not be safe to ride the motorcycle. The machine, however, was light, and he was glad of a chance to warm himself by pushing it to the main road. There was nobody in the wet fields, but the light was getting clear, and a thin streak of smoke rose from the farm among the trees. Everything looked gray and cold and desolate, but as Williamson splashed into a pool a jolt of the bicycle warned him that he had better fix his attention on the ruts.
While he did so, he noticed a sinuous line running to meet him. At first he supposed it was the track he had made in going down the lane; then he thought it looked rather deep, and with sudden suspicion he placed the back wheel of his bicycle beside it. The pattern the tire left in the mud was different, and now he saw another line run out from the grass. This seemed to indicate the track of a side-car, and Williamson, leaning his wheel against the wall, followed the marks back over the ground he had traversed.
They led him to a gap in the dyke, and after taking down the pole that closed it, he traced them to a peat-stack. They were lighter here, which showed that the men had dismounted. He knew that it would take some trouble to push a heavy motorcycle with a car attached over the soft ground; but this had been done, and the machine dragged close behind the stack. After examining the ground carefully, Williamson returned to the loaning and made his way to the highroad as fast as possible. It was now important that nobody should see him coming from the moss.
Reaching the road, where he would excite no curiosity, he sat down in the shelter of a bank and lighted a cigarette, for he had received a decided shock. Some one had driven a motorcycle down the loaning, but had not gone to the farm. This was strange; and it was significant that the man had taken a good deal of trouble to hide the machine, which suggested that he must have meant to leave it for some time, and wished to prevent its being seen. There was nothing on the moss to repay a visit, and the owner of a motorcycle would have no reason for taking a short cut across the mountain on foot, when he could drive round as soon by road. That there was probably another man in the side-car made the puzzle worse; and Williamson's face hardened as he admitted the possibility of their having tried to follow him.
Looking back at the rugged fellside anxiously, he saw that as he crossed its summit he would have been visible against the sky, though any one coming up could not be seen against the dark heath. It was unfortunate that he had not looked back as he went down the other side, or hidden behind a boulder and waited; but he had no ground for believing that anybody knew of his journeys across the hill.
He was engaged in a dangerous business, and the consequences would be serious if the military authorities found him out; but this was not the worst he feared. They might be baffled; but Staffer had hinted that his employers were not satisfied, and it was a dangerous thing to disappoint them. Their rewards were liberal, but their servants must perform their task. Williamson shivered as he remembered what he had heard about the fate of one or two who had not succeeded in this.
Cowering behind the bank, while the cold wind whistled past, he carefully thought out the situation. He saw that he had to face one of two dangers. Either he had by some carelessness excited suspicion, and was being watched, or he was distrusted by his friends. In the latter case, flight to America was the only means of escape, because he knew enough to make his employers uneasy, and if they failed in one plan to put him out of the way, they would try another. He would certainly not be left free to save himself by telling what he knew. But if he had only the British authorities to fear, there was less cause for alarm. They could be thrown off the track; indeed, this must be done, for he dare not now abandon the work he had undertaken.
Williamson was getting very cold, and a searching drizzle had begun to fall; but he scarcely noticed it as he sat weighing the arguments for and against each supposition. Eventually, he decided that he must blame some incautiousness of his own, and he began to wonder whose suspicions he had aroused. Whitney had a motorcycle, and its tires would leave just such a mark as he had noticed; but this did not prove much, because the make was in common use. The American was shrewd and was a friend of Andrew's; but while both were antagonistic Williamson thought they opposed him only on Dick's account. Well, he had promised to leave Dick alone. That ought to satisfy them; and if he were very careful he would be able to elude any other enemies.
Feeling that his scare had been needless, he set off for Dumfries; although he had not yet reached an explanation of the motorcycle tracks.