The women huddled together, stretching each an arm over the papers.
“Mr. Kyd gave them into our charge,” they said in one voice.
“He releases you from that charge,” said Alastair. “Permit me, madam,” and he laid a hand on the saddlebag and began to refill it.
The women would have resisted had not the Spainneach stepped behind them and murmured something into the lean one’s ear. Whatever it was, it caused her to draw back her protecting arm and bid her sister do likewise. Alastair bundled the papers into the bag, and left the room followed by two pairs of wolfish eyes. The Spainneach locked the door, and left the key on the outside. “Best keep these wild cats fast in their cave,” he observed. “There might have been a tussle over that treasure-trove, had I not remembered something I had heard of those grey ones long ago. Now I go to find the servant Edom.”
“When Kyd leaves his room see that the hall is empty. I will await him in the dining-room. When I ring, do you and Hay enter and join us. Make Edom wait at the meal with the servants you have provided.”
“It is a noble meal which is now cooking,” said the Spainneach. “Even the miserly will spend themselves on a high occasion. It is the habit of Madame Norreys to sup in her room, and that room is at the far end of the house from us. She will not be disturbed if we grow merry.”
Alastair sat himself by the fire in the great vaulted dining-room and tore open the saddlebag. He ran hastily through the papers, for he was looking for what he knew to be there, and it did not take him long to discard the irrelevant. Once or twice, as he found what he hoped and yet feared to find, an exclamation was wrung from him. He selected several documents and placed them in his breast, and reread others with set lips and a knotted forehead. Then he looked into the fire and mused. …
Through the open door came the sound of a step on the paved floor of the hall, a heavy, assured, leisurely step. The young man kicked the saddlebag under the table and stood erect by the hearth with an odd smile on his face. Grimness had left it, and a wry courtesy remained.
The laird of Greyhouses was a gallant sight. Gone were the splashed boots and muddy breeches, and all that might recall the wintry roads. He was dressed as on that night at Cornbury when he had kept Sir Christopher Lacy company—in flowered waistcoat, and plum-coloured coat, and canary stockings, and buckled shoes that shone like well-water. He was humming a little tune as he entered, his eye bright and content, his heavy figure tautened and refined by hard travelling, his shapely face rosy as a winter’s eve. It was the entrance of a great man to a company where he expects to be acclaimed, for there was self-consciousness in the primness of his mouth. He lifted his genial eyes and saw Alastair.
The man was a superb actor, for though Alastair was watching him like a hawk he could see no start of surprise, no flicker of disappointment or fear.
“Captain Maclean, upon my soul!” he cried. “And who would have expected it? Man, I did not know you were acquaint here. But ’tis a joyful meeting, my dear sir, and I’m felix opportunitate coenae the day.” He held out a cordial hand, which the young man left unnoticed.
“I am happy to repay hospitality,” he said. “You welcomed me some weeks back at a wayside inn, and it is my turn now to provide the entertainment. Let us sit down to supper, Mr. Kyd. There are other guests,” and he stretched a hand to the bell-rope.
“I confess I was expecting a wheen more,” said Mr. Kyd, and there was just the faintest quiver of his eyelids.
“Sir John Norreys begged to be excused. He was summoned into Nottinghamshire somewhat suddenly—so suddenly that I fear he will take a catarrh, for he has forgotten his hat and cloak. The ladies of the house are detained in their chamber, and the master, as we know, has been bedridden these many years. But there are others to take their place.” Again he stretched out his hand, but Kyd interrupted him.
“What is the meaning of it?” he asked in a low voice. “What does this pleasantry betoken, Captain Maclean?”
“It betokens that ‘Menelaus’ has come to Phaeacia to see his old crony ‘Alcinous.’ The two will have much to say to each other, but they will regret that ‘Achilles’ is not here to make it a three-handed crack.”
The mention of “Achilles” seemed to perturb the other. He narrowed his eyes, and into them came the shadow of that look which Alastair had surprised on the evening at the inn. Then he stepped to the table, filled a glass of claret and drank it off, while Alastair rang the bell.
The Spainneach entered with Hay on his heels. Kyd regarded them with puzzled eyes, as if striving to recapture a memory.
“I present to you Mr. Charles Hay of Tinnis,” said Alastair, “who commands a troop in His Highness’s Lowland Horse. The other gentleman is of the Nameless Clan. Sit you down, sirs.”
Kyd obeyed, but his eyes were not on the food and wine, for he was thinking hard. He had a stout heart and had often faced peril, so he forced his mind to consider the situation’s possibilities, when a weaker man would have been aflutter. Would the horsemen he had asked for from Kingston arrive in time?—that was the main point. Beyond doubt they would, and meantime he would confuse this Highland jackanapes, who seemed to have stumbled on some damaging truths. But the appearance of Alastair, whom he had utterly written off from his list of obstacles, worried him in spite of all his robust philosophy. He made pretence
