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We went in to lunch. The Professor and Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell, all smiles, accompanied us. I don’t know whether it was Charles’s warning to take nothing for granted that made me do so—but I kept a close eye upon the suspected man all the time we were at table. It struck me there was something very odd about his hair. It didn’t seem quite the same colour all over. The locks that hung down behind, over the collar of his coat, were a trifle lighter and a trifle grayer than the black mass that covered the greater part of his head. I examined it carefully. The more I did so, the more the conviction grew upon me: he was wearing a wig. There was no denying it!
A trifle less artistic, perhaps, than most of Colonel Clay’s get-ups; but then, I reflected (on Charles’s principle of taking nothing for granted), we had never before suspected Colonel Clay himself, except in the one case of the Honourable David, whose red hair and whiskers even Madame Picardet had admitted to be absurdly false by her action of pointing at them and tittering irrepressibly. It was possible that in every case, if we had scrutinised our man closely, we should have found that the disguise betrayed itself at once (as Medhurst had suggested) to an acute observer.
The detective, in fact, had told us too much. I remembered what he said to us about knocking off David Granton’s red wig the moment we doubted him; and I positively tried to help myself awkwardly to potato-chips, when the footman offered them, so as to hit the supposed wig with an apparently careless brush of my elbow. But it was of no avail. The fellow seemed to anticipate or suspect my intention, and dodged aside carefully, like one well accustomed to saving his disguise from all chance of such real or seeming accidents.
I was so full of my discovery that immediately after lunch I induced Isabel to take our new friends round the home garden and show them Charles’s famous prize dahlias, while I proceeded myself to narrate to Charles and Amelia my observations and my frustrated experiment.
“It is a wig,” Amelia assented. “I spotted it at once. A very good wig, too, and most artistically planted. Men don’t notice these things, though women do. It is creditable to you, Seymour, to have succeeded in detecting it.”
Charles was less complimentary. “You fool,” he answered, with that unpleasant frankness which is much too common with him. “Supposing it is, why on earth should you try to knock it off and disclose him? What good would it have done? If it is a wig, and we spot it, that’s all that we need. We are put on our guard; we know with whom we have now to deal. But you can’t take a man up on a charge of wig-wearing. The law doesn’t interfere with it. Most respectable men may sometimes wear wigs. Why, I knew a promoter who did, and also the director of fourteen companies! What we have to do next is, wait till he tries to cheat us, and then—pounce down upon him. Sooner or later, you may be sure, his plans will reveal themselves.”
So we concocted an excellent scheme to keep them under constant observation, lest they should slip away again, as they did from the island. First of all, Amelia was to ask them to come and stop at the castle, on the ground that the rooms at the inn were uncomfortably small. We felt sure, however, that, as on a previous occasion, they would refuse the invitation, in order to be able to slink off unperceived, in case they should find themselves apparently suspected. Should they decline, it was arranged that Césarine should take a room at the Cromarty Arms as long as they stopped there, and report upon their movements; while, during the day, we would have the house watched by the head gillie’s son, a most intelligent young man, who could be trusted, with true Scotch canniness, to say nothing to anybody.
To our immense surprise, Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell accepted the invitation with the utmost alacrity. She was profuse in her thanks, indeed; for she told us the Arms was an ill-kept house, and the cookery by no means agreed with her husband’s liver. It was sweet of us to invite them; such kindness to perfect strangers was quite unexpected. She should always say that nowhere on earth had she met with so cordial or friendly a reception as at Seldon Castle. But—she accepted, unreservedly.
“It can’t be Colonel Clay,” I remarked to Charles. “He would never have come here. Even as David Granton, with far more reason for coming, he wouldn’t put himself in our power: he preferred the security and freedom of the Cromarty Arms.”
“Sey,” my brother-in-law said sententiously, “you’re incorrigible. You will persist in being the slave of prepossessions. He may have some good reason of his own for accepting. Wait till he shows his hand—and then, we shall understand everything.”
So for the next three weeks the Forbes-Gaskells formed part of the house-party at Seldon. I must say, Charles paid them most assiduous attention. He positively neglected his other guests in order to keep close to the two new-comers. Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell noticed the fact, and commented on it. “You are really too good to us, Sir Charles,” she said. “I’m afraid you allow us quite to monopolise you!”
But Charles, gallant as ever, replied with a smile, “We have you with us for so short a time, you know!” Which made Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell blush again that delicious blush of hers.
During all this time the Professor went on calmly and persistently mineralogising. “Wonderful character!” Charles said to me. “He works out his parts so well! Could anything exceed the picture he gives one of scientific ardour?” And, indeed, he was at it, morning, noon, and night. “Sooner or later,” Charles observed, “something practical must come of it.”
Twice, meanwhile, little episodes occurred which are well worth notice. One day I was out with the Professor on the Long Mountain, watching him hammer at the rocks, and a little bored by his performance, when, to pass the time, I asked him what a particular small water-worn stone was. He looked at it and smiled. “If there were a little more mica in it,” he said, “it would be the characteristic gneiss of ice-borne boulders, hereabouts. But there isn’t quite enough.” And he gazed at it curiously.
“Indeed,” I answered, “it doesn’t come up to sample, doesn’t it?”
He gave me a meaning look. “Ten percent,” he murmured in a slow, strange voice; “ten percent is more usual.”
I trembled violently. Was he bent, then, upon ruining me? “If you betray me—” I cried, and broke off.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. He was all pure innocence.
I reflected on what Charles had said about taking nothing for granted, and held my tongue prudently.
The other incident was this. Charles picked a sprig of white heather on the hill one afternoon, after a picnic lunch, I regret to say, when he had taken perhaps a glass more champagne than was strictly good for him. He was not exactly the worse for it, but he was excited, good-humoured, reckless, and lively. He brought the sprig to Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell, and handed it to her, ogling a little. “Sweets to the sweet,” he murmured, and looked at her meaningly. “White heather