Kitabı oku: «The Mystery of the Green Ray», sayfa 4
CHAPTER V
IS MORE MYSTERIOUS
I sat and stared at the old man in astonishment. Obviously he was fully convinced that he was giving me an accurate account of what had happened, and equally obviously he was perfectly sane.
“That is all,” he said presently. “The rock came to me.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, suddenly brought to my senses by the sound of his voice. “What an extraordinary thing!”
“For a moment I thought I was mad, and sometimes, when I have thought over it since – and the Lord knows how many times I’ve done that – I’ve come to the conclusion that I must have fallen asleep. But even now the fear haunts me that my mind may be going.”
“You mustn’t imagine anything like that, General,” I advised seriously. “Whatever you do, don’t encourage any doubts of your own sanity. There must be some explanation of this, although I can’t for the moment imagine what it can possibly be. It is a remarkable thing, and I fancy you will find, when we do know the explanation, that anyone else standing where you were at that time would have seen exactly the same thing. The rock stands out of the water; it is just above a deep pool, and probably it was a sort of mirage effect, and not by any means a figment of your brain.”
To my surprise the old man leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.
“Of course,” he exclaimed. “I never thought of that – a sort of mirage. Well, I’m begad thankful you suggested that, Ronald. I’ve no doubt that it was something of the sort. What a begad old fool I am. Let us pray that our poor little girl’s trouble,” he added solemnly, “will have some equally simple solution.”
The General was so relieved that I had given him, at any rate, some sort of reason to believe that his brain was not yet going, that he began to declare that he was convinced Myra would be better in a day or two. So we arranged that I should take her up to London the next day, and leave her in charge of her aunt, Lady Ruslit, and then, as soon as we had heard Sir Gaire’s verdict, I was to bring her back again. General McLeod had been anxious at first to come with us, but I pointed out that he would be of more use to Myra if he stayed behind, and kept an eye on her interests in the neighbourhood. I promised to wire him the result of the interview with Olvery as soon as I knew it. And just about a quarter to ten we went to bed.
“Ronald,” said the old man, as we shook hands outside my door, “there’s just one thing I wasn’t frank with you about in the matter of the Chemist’s Rock. I am anxious to believe that it’s a point of no particular importance. You know the rock is a sort of sandstone, not grey like the rest, but nearly white?”
“Yes,” I answered, wondering what could be coming next.
“Well,” said the old man, “that day when I saw it appearing to come towards me it was not white, but green.”
“No,” I said at last, when we had spent another twenty minutes discussing this new aspect in my room. “It’s beyond me. I can’t see how the two events can be connected, and yet they are so unusual that one would think they must be. I certainly think it is a point to put in detail before Olvery.”
“On the whole, I quite agree with you,” said the General. “I am rather afraid he may take us for a pack of lunatics, and refuse to be bothered with the case.”
“I’m sure he won’t do that,” I asserted confidently. “And he may have some medical knowledge that will just shake the puzzle into place, and explain the whole mystery to us. It seems to me a most remarkable thing that these two strange affairs should have happened in exactly the same place. That it is some strange freak of nature I have no doubt, but I am absolutely at a loss to think what it can be.”
It can hardly be wondered at that, as I have said before, sleep and I were strangers that night, and I was glad enough when the time came for me to get up.
Myra came down after breakfast, wonderfully brave and bright, but there was no sign whatever of her sight returning to her. The leave-taking was a wretched business, and I cannot dwell on it. Sandy started early to sail to Mallaig with the luggage, and we followed in the motor-boat, Angus at the engine, old Mary McNiven in the bows, while I took the tiller, and Myra lay on a pile of cushions at my feet, her head resting on my knee, her arm round Sholto’s neck; for she had wanted the dog to see her off at the station. The old General managed to keep up a cheery manner as he said good-bye at the landing-stage, but he was looking so care-worn and haggard that I was glad that he had been persuaded not to come up to London with us. He was certainly not in a fit state for the fatigues of a long journey. As we passed Glasnabinnie the Baltimore slid out from the side of the shed that stood on the edge of the miniature harbour which Nature had thoughtfully bestowed on the place.
“I can hear a motor-boat,” said Myra, suddenly sitting up.
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s Hilderman’s.”
“Is she ahead of us?” she asked.
I looked round, and saw that the Baltimore was putting out to round the point.
“No, she’s about level,” I answered. “She’s evidently making for Mallaig. We are, if anything, a little ahead, but they will soon pass us, I should think.”
“Oh, Ron,” cried Myra, with childish excitement, “don’t let them beat us. Angus, put some life into her. We must make the harbour first.”
Angus did his best, and I set her course as near in shore as I dared on that treacherous coast. The Baltimore glided out to sea with the easy grace of a powerful and beautiful animal, and as we passed the jagged promontory she was coming up about thirty yards behind us.
“Challenge him, Ron,” Myra exclaimed; “you’ve met him.”
I turned, and saw Hilderman and two other men in the boat, one a friend apparently, and the other the mechanic. I stood up and waved to him.
“We’ll race you to Mallaig,” I shouted.
“It’s a bet,” he agreed readily, at the top of his voice, waving back.
It was a ding-dong business across the mouth of Nevis, and the Baltimore was leading, if anything, but we had not far to go, and our opponents had taken a course a good deal farther out to sea than we were. Coming up by the lighthouse, however, the Baltimore drew in at a magnificent pace, and swept in to pass inside the lighthouse rock. Hilderman, who was quite distinct at the short distance, stood up in the stern of the Baltimore, and looked at us. We were making good time, but we had no chance of outdistancing his powerful boat. But, as he looked at us, and was evidently about to shout some triumphant greeting, I saw him catch sight of Myra, lying at my feet, her face hidden in the shade over her eyes. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, he swung the tiller, and, turning out again, took the long course round the lighthouse, and we slid alongside the fish-table a good minute ahead of him. Myra was delighted; she had no suspicion that we had virtually lost the race, and the trifling excitement gave her a real pleasure. Angus, I could see, was puzzled, but I signed to him to say nothing. My heart warmed to Hilderman; he had seen that Myra was not well, and, divining that it would give her some pleasure to win the race, he had tactfully given way to us. I was really grateful to him for his kindly thought, and determined to thank him as soon as I could. We had nearly half an hour to wait for the mid-day train, and, after seeing Myra and Mary safely ensconced in the Marine Hotel, I went out with Sholto to get the tickets, telegraph to Dennis, and express my gratitude to Hilderman. But when I stepped out of the hotel he was standing in the road waiting for me.
“Good morning, Mr. Ewart,” he said, coming forward to offer me his hand. “Is there anything the matter with Miss McLeod?”
“She’s not very well,” I replied. “She has something the matter with her eyes. It was very good of you to let us win our little race. Every little pleasure that we can give Miss McLeod just at this time is of great value to us.”
“Eyes?” said Hilderman, thoughtfully, with the same dreamy expression that Dennis had pointed out at King’s Cross. “What sort of thing is it? I know something about eyes.”
“I’m afraid I can tell you nothing,” I replied. “She has suddenly lost her sight in the most amazing and terrible manner. We are just taking her up to London to see a specialist.”
“Had she any pain?” he asked, “or any dizziness or fainting, or anything like that?”
“No,” I said; “there is absolutely nothing to go by. It is a most extraordinary affair, and a very terrible blow to us all.”
“It must be,” he said gently, “very, very terrible. I have heard so much about Miss McLeod that I even feel it myself. I am deeply grieved to hear this, deeply grieved.” He spoke very sympathetically, and I felt that it was very kind of him to take such a friendly interest in his unknown neighbour.
“I think you’d better join me in a brandy and soda, Mr. Ewart,” he said, laying a hand on my arm. “I don’t suppose you know it, but you look ten years older than you did yesterday.”
Yesterday! Good heavens! Had all this happened in a day? I was certainly feeling far from myself, and I accepted his invitation readily enough. We turned into the refreshment-room outside the station, and I had a stiff whisky and soda, realising how far away from London I was when the man gave me the whisky in one glass and the soda in another.
“Tell me,” said Hilderman, “if it is not very rude of me to ask, or too painful for you to speak about, what was Miss McLeod doing when this happened? Reading, or what?” I gave him a rough outline of the circumstances, but, in view of what the General had told me the night before, I said nothing about the mystery of the green ray. We wanted to retain our reputation for sanity as long as we could, and no outsider who did not know the General personally would believe that his astonishing experience was anything other than the strange creation of a nerve-wrought brain.
“And that was all?” he asked thoughtfully.
“Yes, that was all,” I replied.
“I suppose you haven’t decided what specialist you will take her to when you get her to London?” he queried. I was about to reply when I heard Sholto in a heated argument with some other dog, and I bolted out, with a hurried excuse, to bring him in. As I returned, with my hand on his collar, the harbour-master greeted me, and told me we might have some difficulty in reaching London, as the train service was likely to be disorganised owing to the transport of troops and munitions. When I rejoined Hilderman I was full of this new development. It would be both awkward and unpleasant to be turned out of the train before we reached London; and every moment’s delay might mean injury to my poor Myra.
“I don’t think you need worry at all, Mr. Ewart,” my new friend assured me. “The trains will run all right. They may alter the services where they have too many trains, but here they are not likely to do so. Thank heaven, I shall not be travelling again for some time. I hate it, although I have to run about a good deal. I have a few modest investments that take up a considerable portion of my time. I figure on one or two boards, you know.”
I thanked him for his kindly interest, and left him. I wired to Dennis not to meet the train, but to be prepared to put me up the following night. Then I got the tickets, and took Myra to the train. Hilderman was seeing his friend off; a short, somewhat stout man, with flaxen hair, and small blue eyes peering through a pair of large spectacles. He bowed to us as we passed, and I was struck by the kindly sympathy with which both he and his companion glanced at Myra. Evidently they both realised what a terrible blow to her the loss of her sight must be. I will admit that, when it came to the time for the train to start, my heart nearly failed me altogether. The sight of the beautiful blind girl saying good-bye to her dog was one which I hope I may never see again. As the train steamed out into the cutting Sholto was left whining on the platform, and it was as much as Angus could do to hold him back. Poor Sholto; he was a faithful beast, and they were taking his beloved mistress away from him. Myra sat back in the carriage, and furtively wiped away a tear from her poor sightless eyes.
“Poor old fellow,” she said, with a brave smile. “If they can’t do anything for me in London he will have to lead me about. It’ll keep him out of mischief.”
“Don’t say that, darling!” I groaned.
“Poor old Ron,” she said tenderly. “I believe it’s worse for you than it is for me. And now that Mary has left us for a bit I want to say something to you, dear, while I can. You mustn’t think I don’t understand what this will mean to you, dear. I want you to know, darling, that I hope always to be your very great friend, but I don’t expect you to marry a blind girl.”
I shall certainly not tell the reader what I said in reply to that generous and noble statement.
“Besides, dear,” I concluded eventually, “you will soon be able to see again.” And so I tried to assure her, till presently Mary returned. And then we made her comfortable, and I read to her in the darkened carriage until at last my poor darling fell into a gentle sleep.
But twenty-six hours later, when I had seen Myra safely back to her aunt’s house from Harley Street, I staggered up the stairs to Dennis’s rooms in Panton Street a broken man.
Dennis opened the door to me himself.
“Ronald!” he cried, “what has happened?”
“Hello, old man,” I said weakly; “I’m very, very tired.”
My friend took my arm and led me into his sitting-room, and pressed me gently on the sofa. Then he brought me a stiff brandy and soda, and sat beside me in silence for a few minutes.
“Feel better, old boy?” he asked presently.
“Yes, thanks, Den,” I answered. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”
“Tell me,” he said, “when you feel well enough.” But I lay, and closed my eyes, for I was dog-tired, and could not bring myself to speak even to Dennis of the specialist’s terrible verdict. And soon Nature asserted herself, and I fell into a deep sleep, which was the best thing I could have done. When I awoke I was lying in bed, in total darkness, in Dennis’s extra room. I sat up, and called out in my surprise, for I had been many miles away in my slumbers, and my first hope was that the whole adventure had been a hideous nightmare. But Dennis, hearing my shout, walked in to see if I wanted anything.
“Now, how do you feel?” he asked, as he sat on the side of the bed.
“Did you carry me in here and put me to bed?” I asked idly.
“You certainly didn’t look like walking, and I thought you’d be more comfortable in here,” he laughed.
“Great Scott, man!” I cried, suddenly remembering his heart trouble, “you shouldn’t have done that, Dennis. You promised me you’d take no risks.”
“Heavens! that was nothing,” he declared emphatically. “You’re as light as a feather. There was no risk in that.”
Indeed, as events were to prove, it was only the first of many, but being ignorant of that at the time, I contented myself with pointing out that very few feathers turned the scale at twelve-stone-three.
“Now look here, old son,” said Dennis, in an authoritative voice. “You mustn’t imagine I’m dealing with your trouble, whatever it is (for you are in trouble, Ronald), in a matter-of-fact and unsympathetic way. But what you’ve got to do now is to get up, have a tub, slip into a dressing-gown, and have a quiet little dinner with me here. It’s just gone eight, so you ought to be ready for it.”
He disappeared to turn on the bath-water, and then, when he met me in the passage making for the bathroom, he handed me a glass.
“Drink this, old chap,” he said.
“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. “I don’t want any fancy pick-me-ups. They only make you worse afterwards.”
“That was prescribed by Doctor Common Sense,” he answered lightly. “It’s peach bitters!”
After my tub I was able to tackle my dinner, with the knowledge that I was badly in need of something to eat, a feeling which surprised me very much. Throughout the meal Dennis told me of the enlistment of Jack and poor Tommy Evans, and we discussed their prospects and the chances of my seeing them before they disappeared into the crowded ranks of Kitchener’s Army. Dennis himself had been ruthlessly refused. He spoke of trying his luck again until they accepted him, but I knew, from what he told me of the doctor’s remarks, that he had no earthly chance of being passed. He seemed to have entirely mastered his regret at his inability to serve his country in the ranks, but I understood at once that he was merely putting his own troubles in the background in face of my own. The meal over, we “got behind” two of Dennis’s excellent cigars, and made ourselves comfortable.
“Now then, old man,” said my friend, “a complete and precise account of what has happened to you since you left King’s Cross two days ago.”
“It has all been so extraordinary and terrible,” I said, “that I hardly know where to begin.”
“I saw you last at the station,” he said, laying a hand on my knee. “Begin from there.” So I began at the beginning, and told him just what had happened, exactly as I have told the reader.
Dennis was deeply moved.
“And then you saw Olvery?” he asked. “What did he say?”
I got up, paced the room. What had Olvery said? Should I ever forget those blistering words to the day of my death?
“Come, old boy,” said Dennis kindly. “You must remember that Olvery is merely a man. He is only one of the many floundering about among the mysteries of Nature, trying to throw light upon darkness. You mustn’t imagine that his view is necessarily correct, from whichever point he looked at the case.”
“Thank you for that,” I said. “I am afraid I forgot that he might possibly be mistaken. He says he knows nothing of this case at all; he can make nothing of it; it is quite beyond him. He is certain that no such similar case has been brought to the knowledge of optical science. His view is that there is the remotest possibility that this green veil may lift, but he says he is sure that if there were any scientific reason for saying that her sight will be restored he would be able to detect it.”
“I prefer your Dr. Whitehouse to this man any day,” said Dennis emphatically. “He took just the opposite view. This man Olvery, like so many specialists, is evidently a dogmatic egotist.”
“I’m very glad you can give us even that hope. But the eyes are such a delicate instrument. It is difficult to see how the sight can be recovered when once it has gone. Of course, Olvery is going to do what he can. He has suggested certain treatment, and massage, and so forth, and he has no objection to her going back home again. Myra, of course, is tremendously anxious for me to take her back to her father. She is worrying about him already; and, fortunately, Olvery knows Whitehouse, and has the highest opinion of him.”
“Go back as soon as you can, old chap,” Dennis advised. “Wire me if there is anything I can do for you at this end. I’ll make some inquiries, and see if I can find out anything about any similar cases, and so on. But you take the girl back home if she wants to go.”
While we were still talking, Dennis’s man, Cooper, entered.
“Telegram for Mr. Ewart, sir,” he said.
I took the yellow envelope and opened it carelessly.
“What is it?” cried Dennis, springing to his feet as he saw my face.
“Read it,” I said faintly, as I handed it to him. Dennis read the message aloud:
“Come back at once. I can’t stand this. Sholto is blind. – McLeod.”
CHAPTER VI.
CONTAINS A FURTHER ENIGMA
Back again at King’s Cross. I seemed to have been travelling on the line all my life. Myra turned to Dennis to say good-bye.
“I hope,” she said bravely, “that when we meet again, Mr. Burnham, I shall be able to tell you that I can see you looking well.”
“I do hope so, indeed, Miss McLeod,” said Dennis fervently, with a quick glance at me. He was lost in admiration at the quiet calm with which my poor darling took her terrible affliction.
“Good-bye, old chap,” my friend said to me cheerily. “I hope to hear in a day or two that Miss McLeod is quite well again. And,” he added in a whisper, “wire me if I can be of the slightest use.”
I readily agreed, and I was beginning, even at that early stage, to be very thankful that my friend was free to help me in case of need.
When at last we reached Invermalluch Lodge again I sat for an hour in the library with the old General, telling him in detail the result of the specialist’s examination, but I took care to put Dennis’s point of view to him at the outset. I was glad I had done so, for he seized on the faint hope it offered, and clung to it in despair.
“What is your own impression of Olvery?” he asked.
“I fancy his knighthood has got into his head,” I replied. “He gave me the impression that he was quite certain he knew everything there was to be known, and that the mere fact of his not being sure about the return of her sight made him positive that it must be complete and absolute blindness. Of course he hedged and left himself a loophole in the event of her recovery, but I could have told him just as much as he told me.”
“You say you took it on yourself to take Myra out of his hands altogether. Why?”
“When I received your wire, I rang him up at once, and asked him to see me immediately,” I replied. “Eventually he agreed, and I took a taxi to his place, and told him about Sholto. He gave his opinion without any consideration whatever. He said: ‘The merest coincidence, Mr. Ewart – the merest coincidence – and you may even find that the dog has not actually lost his sight at all.’ So naturally I thanked him, gave him his fee, and came away. I propose now that you should try and get this man – Garnish, is it – ?”
“Garnesk,” interposed the General, consulting a note Dr. Whitehouse had left – “Herbert Garnesk.”
“Well, I want you to try and get him sufficiently interested to come here – and stop here – until he has come to some decision, no matter what it is.”
“A thundering good idea, Ronald,” agreed the old man. “But we can’t tell him this extraordinary story in writing.”
“I’ll go and find him, and fetch him back with me, if I have to hold a gun to his head.”
Accordingly I dashed off to Mallaig again, and caught the evening train to Glasgow. I spent an unhappy night at the Central Station Hotel – though it was certainly not the fault of the hotel – and looked up Mr. Garnesk as early in the morning as I dared disturb a celebrated consultant oculist. I took a fancy to the man at once. He was young – in the early ’forties – very alert-looking, and exceedingly businesslike. His prematurely grey hair gave an added air of importance to the clever eye and clean-cut features, and he had a charm of manner which would have made his fortune had he been almost ignorant of the rudiments of his calling.
“So that’s the complete story of Miss McLeod and her dog Sholto,” he mused, when I had finished speaking. For a brief second I thought he was about to laugh at the apparent absurdity of the yarn, but before I had time to answer he spoke again.
“Miss McLeod and her dog are apparently blind, and Mr. Ewart is a bundle of nerves – and this is very excellent brandy, Mr. Ewart. Allow me.”
I accepted the proffered glass with a laugh, in spite of myself.
“What do you think of it?” I asked.
He sat on the edge of the table and swung his leg, wrapt in thought for a moment.
“I’m very glad to say I don’t know what to think of it,” he replied presently.
“Why glad?” I asked anxiously.
“Because, my dear sir, this is so remarkable that if I thought I could see a solution I should probably be making a mistake. This is something I am learning about for the first time; and, frankly, it interests me intensely.”
Suddenly he sat down abruptly, with a muttered “Now, then,” and began to catechise me in a most extraordinarily searching manner, firing off question after question with the rapidity of a maxim gun.
I shall not detain the reader with details of this catechism. His inquiries ranged from the system on which the house was lighted and the number of hours Myra averaged per week on the sea to the make of the engine in her motor-boat. His last question was: “Does anybody drink the river water?”
“Windows that flash in the sun seem to me to be confusing the issue,” he said at last. “Windows must always reflect light in a certain direction at a certain time, and though they may be irritating they could not possibly produce even temporary blindness. Still, we won’t forget them, Mr. Ewart, though we had better put them aside for a moment. Now, how soon can you bring Miss McLeod to see me?”
“We had hoped,” I ventured to suggest, “that you would be able to run up and see her, and have a look at the ground. You could then examine the dog as well.”
“I’ll be perfectly candid with you, Mr. Ewart,” he replied. “I was just going to start on a short holiday. I was going to Switzerland; but the war has knocked that on the head, so I am just running up to Perthshire for a week’s fishing. I need a holiday very badly, more especially as I have undertaken some Government work in connection with the war. Fortunately, I am a bachelor, and I will willingly give up a couple of days to Miss McLeod.”
“Why not combine business with pleasure?” I suggested. “There’s good fishing at Invermalluch, gorgeous scenery, a golf-course a mile or two away, and you can do just as you please on the General’s estate. He’ll be delighted.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Well, anyway, I can go to the Glenelg Hotel and fish up Glenmore. Now, Mr. Ewart, we will catch the afternoon train, the earliest there is – though I suppose there’s only one.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Mr. Garnesk,” I said. “It may mean a very great deal to us that you are so anxious to see Miss McLeod.”
“I am not anxious to see Miss McLeod,” he answered, cryptically. “I’m anxious to see the dog.”
I left him, to telegraph to the General that I was arriving that night bringing the specialist with me; and I need hardly say that I left the telegraph office with a comparatively light heart. The journey to Mallaig was one of the most interesting afternoons I have spent. Garnesk was consulting oculist to all the big chemical, machine, naval and other manufacturers in the great industrial centre on the Clyde, and he kept me enthralled with his accounts of the sudden attacks of various eye diseases which were occasionally the fate of the workers. The effects of chemicals, the indigenous generation of gases in the furnace-rooms, and so on, had afforded him ample scope for experiment; and, fortunately for us all, he was delighted to have found new ground for enlarging his experience. The mixture of professional anecdote and piscatorial prophecy with which he entertained me, now and then rushing across the carriage to get a glimpse of a salmon-pool in some river over which we happened to be passing, gave me an amusing insight into the character of one whom I have since learned to regard as a very brilliant and charming man. When we arrived at the landing-stage at the Lodge, the General greeted him with undisguised joy.
“Begad! Mr. Garnesk,” he blurted, “I’m thundering glad to see you, sir. It’s good of you to come, sir – extremely good.”
“That remains to be seen, General,” said Garnesk, solemnly – “whether my visit will do any good. I hope so, with all my heart.”
“Amen to that!” said the old man, pathetically, with a heavy sigh.
“How is Miss McLeod?” asked the scientist.
“Her eyes are no better,” the General replied. “She cannot see at all. Otherwise she is in perfect health. She says she feels as well as ever she did. I can’t understand it,” he finished helplessly.
A suit-case, a bag of golf-clubs, and a square deal box completed Garnesk’s outfit.
“Steady with that – here, let me take it?” he cried, as Angus was lifting the last item ashore. “Business and pleasure,” he continued, raising the box in his arms and indicating his clubs and fishing-rods with a jerk of the head. “I’ve one or two things here that may help me in my work, and as they are very delicate instruments I would rather carry them myself.”
As we approached the house the sound of the piano greeted us in the distance; and soon we could distinguish the strains of that most beautiful and understanding of all burial marches, Grieg’s “Aase’s Tod.”
“My daughter can even welcome us with a tune,” said the old man proudly. To him all music came under the category of “tunes,” with the sole exception of “God Save the King,” which was a national institution.
Garnesk stopped and stood on the path, the deal box clasped carefully in his arms, his head on one side, listening.
“We have the right sort of patient to deal with, anyway,” he remarked, with a sigh of relief. But to me the melancholy insistence of the exquisite harmonies was fraught with ill-omen, and I could not restrain the shudder of an unaccountable fear as we resumed our walk. Later on, when I found an opportunity to ask her why she had chosen that particular music, I was only partially relieved by her ingenuous answer:
“Oh! just because I love it, Ronnie,” she said, “and there are no difficult intervals to play with your eyes shut. I thought it was rather clever of me to think of it. I shall soon be able to play more tricky things. It will cure me of looking at the notes when I can see again.”
Myra and the young specialist were introduced; and, though he chatted gaily with her, and touched on innumerable subjects, he never once alluded to her misfortune. Though the General was evidently anxious that Garnesk should make his examination as soon as possible, hospitality forced him to suggest dinner first, and I was surprised at the alacrity with which the visitor concurred, knowing, as I did, his intense interest in the case. But, after a few conventional remarks to the General and Myra, I was about to show him to his room when he seized my arm excitedly.
“Quick!” he whispered. “Where’s the dog?”
I led him to a room above the coach-house where poor Sholto was a pitiful prisoner. Garnesk deposited his precious packing-case on the floor, and called the dog to him. Sholto sprang forward in a moment, recognising the tone of friendship in the voice, and planted his paws on my companion’s chest. For twenty minutes the examination lasted. One strange test after another was applied to the poor animal; but he was very good about it, and seemed to understand that we were trying to help him.
