LITMIR.BIZ

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next step was to compass an inconspicuous departure. Lamancha would be escorted in state to the four-forty-five train, and he must join it at Frew. While “God save the King” was being sung, Sir Archie escaped by a side-door, followed by an excited agent. “Man, ye went down tremendous,” Brodie gasped. “Ye changed your mind—ye told me ye were goin’ to deal wi’ foreign policy. Anyway, ye’ve started fine, and there’ll be no gettin’ inside the hall the next time ye speak in Muirtown.”

      Archie shook him off, picked up a taxi-cab at the station, and drove to Frew. There, after lurking in the waiting-room, he duly entered a third-class carriage in the rear of the south-going train. At six o’clock he emerged on to the platform at Bridge of Gair, and waited till the train had gone before he followed Lamancha to the hotel. He found his friend thinking only of Haripol. “I had a difficult job to get rid of Claybody, and had to tell a lot of lies. Said I was going to stay with Lanerick and that my man had gone on there with my luggage. We’d better be off, for we’ve a big day before us to-morrow.”

      But, as the Hispana started up the road to the pass, Lamancha smiled affectionately on the driver and patted his shoulder. “I’ve often called you an idiot, Archie, but I’m bound to say to-day you were an inspired idiot. You may win this seat or not—it doesn’t matter—but sooner or later you’re going to make a howling success in that silly game.”

      Beyond the pass the skies darkened for rain, and it was in a deluge that the car, a little after eight o’clock, crossed the Bridge of Larrig. Archie had intended to go round by one of the peat-roads, but the wild weather had driven everyone to shelter, and it seemed safe to take the straight road up the hill. Shapp, who had just arrived in the Ford, took charge of the car, and Archie and Lamancha sprinted through the drizzle to the back-door.

      To their surprise it was locked, and when, in reply to their hammering, Mrs Lithgow appeared, it was only after repeated questions through the scullery-window that she was convinced of their identity and permitted them to enter.

      “We’ve been fair fashed wi’ folk,” was her laconic comment, as she retired hastily to the kitchen after locking the door behind them.

      In the smoking-room they found the lamps lit, the windows shuttered, Crossby busy with the newspapers, Palliser-Yeates playing patience, and Leithen as usual deep in the works of Sir Walter Scott. “Well,” was the unanimous question, “how did it go off?”

      “Not so bad,” said Archie. “Charles was in great form. But what on earth has scared Mrs Lithgow?”

      Leithen laid down his book. “We’ve had the devil of a time. Our base has been attacked. It looks as if we may have a rearguard action to add to our troubles. We’re practically besieged. Two hours ago I was all for burning our ciphers and retiring.”

      “Besieged? By whom?”

      “By the correspondents. Ever since the early afternoon. I fancy their editors have been prodding them with telegrams. Anyhow, they’ve forgotten all about Harald Blacktooth and are hot on the scent of John Macnab.”

      “But what brought them here?”

      “Method of elimination, I suppose. Your journalist is a sharp fellow. They argued that John Macnab must have a base near by, and, as it wasn’t Strathlarrig or Glenraden, it was most likely here. Also they caught sight of Crossby taking the air, and gave chase. Crossby flung them off—happily they can’t have recognised him—but they had him treed in the stable loft for three hours.”

      “Did they see you?”

      “No. Some got into the hall and some glued their faces to this window, but John was under the table and I was making myself very small at the back of the sofa…Mrs Lithgow handled them like Napoleon. Said the Laird was away and wouldn’t be back till midnight, but he’d see them at ten o’clock to-morrow. She had to promise that, for they are determined ruffians. They’d probably still be hanging about the place if it hadn’t been for this blessed rain.”

      “That’s not all,” said Palliser-Yeates. “We had a visit from a lunatic. We didn’t see him, for Mrs Lithgow lured him indoors and has him shut up in the wine-cellar.”

      “Good God! What kind of lunatic?” Sir Archie exclaimed.

      “Don’t know. Mrs Lithgow was not communicative. She said something about smallpox. Maybe he’s a fellow-sufferer looking for Archie’s company. Anyhow, he’s in the wine-cellar for Wattie to deal with.”

      Sir Archie rose and marched from the room, and did not return till the party were seated at a late supper. His air was harassed, and his eyes were wild.

      “It wasn’t the wine-cellar,” he groaned, “it was the coal-hole. He’s upstairs now having a bath and changing into a suit of my clothes. Pretty short in the temper, too, and no wonder. For Heaven’s sake, you fellows, stroke him down when he appears. We’ve got to bank on his being a good chap and tell him everything. It’s deuced hard luck. Here am I just making a promising start in my public career, and you’ve gone and locked up the local Medical Officer of Health who came to inquire into a reputed case of smallpox.”

      X.

       IN WHICH CRIME IS ADDED TO CRIME

       Table of Contents

      By the mercy of Providence Doctor Kello fulfilled Archie’s definition of a “good chap.” He was a sandy-haired young man from Dundee, who had been in the Air Force, and on his native dialect had grafted the intricate slang of that service. Archie had found him half-choked with coal-dust and wrath, and abject apologies had scarcely mollified him. But a hot bath and his host’s insistence that he should spend the night at Crask—Dr Kello knew very well that at the inn he would get no more than a sofa—had worked a miracle, and he appeared at the supper-table prepared to forgive and forget. He was a little awed by the company in which he found himself, and nervously murmured, “Pleased to meet ye” in response to the various introductions. A good meal and Archie’s Veuve Clicquot put him into humour with himself and at ease with his surroundings. He exchanged war reminiscences, and told stories of his professional life—“Ye wouldn’t believe, I tell ye, what queer folk the Highlanders are” and when later in the evening Archie, speaking as to a brother airman, made a clean breast of the John Macnab affair, he received the confession with obstreperous hilarity. “It’s the best stunt I ever heard tell of,” he roared, slapping his knee. “Ye may depend on me to back ye up, too. Is it the journalists that’s worrying ye? You leave the merchants to me. I’ll shut their mouths for them. Ten o’clock to-morrow, is it? Well, I’ll be there with a face as long as my arm, and I’ll guarantee to send them down the hill like a kirk emptying.”

      All night it rained in bucketfuls, and the Friday morning broke with the same pitiless deluge. Lamancha came down to breakfast in a suit of clothes which would have been refused by a self-respecting tramp, but which, as a matter of fact, had been his stalking outfit for a dozen years. The Merklands were not a dressy family. He studied the barograph, where the needle was moving ominously downward, and considered the dissolving skies and the mist which rose like a wall beyond the terrace.

      “It’s no good,” he told his host. “You might as well try to stalk Haripol in a snow blizzard. To-day must be washed out, and that leaves us only to-morrow. We’ll have to roost indoors, and we’re terribly at the mercy of that hive of correspondents.”

      The hive came at ten, a waterproofed army defying the weather in the cause of duty. But in front of the door they were met by Dr Kello, with a portentous face.

      “Good morning, boys,” he said. “Sir Archibald Roylance asked me to see ye on his behalf. My name’s Kello—I’m Medical Officer of Health for this part of the world. I’m very sorry, but ye can’t see Sir Archibald this morning. In fact, I want ye to go away and not come near the place at all.”

      He was promptly asked for his reason.

      “The fact

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