Looking at him attentively as he sat before the fire studying The Scotsman (the latest paper to be obtained in those parts), I thought to myself that here was a man I should a very great deal sooner have on my side than against me. If ever I had seen a wolf in sheep’s clothing, it seemed to me that I beheld one now in the person of Adolph Tiel, attired as a Scottish clergyman, reading a solid Scottish newspaper over the peat fire of this remote and peaceful manse. And, to complete the picture, there sat I arrayed in a German naval uniform, with the unsuspecting Grand Fleet on the other side of those shuttered and curtained windows. The piquancy of the whole situation struck me so forcibly that I laughed aloud.
Tiel looked up and laid down his paper, and his eyebrows rose inquiringly. He was not a man who wasted many words.
“We are a nice pair!” I exclaimed.
I seemed to read approval of my spirit in his eye.
“You seem none the worse of your adventures,” he said with a smile.
“No thanks to you!” I laughed.
Again he gave me that keen look of inquiry.
“I landed on this infernal island last night!” I explained.
“The deuce you did!” said he. “I was afraid you might, but as things turned out I couldn’t get here sooner. What did you do with yourself?”
“First give me one of those cigars,” I said, “and then I’ll tell you.”
He handed me the box of cigars and I drew up an easy-chair on the other side of the fire. And then I told him my adventures, and as I was not unwilling that this redoubtable adventurer should see that he had a not wholly unworthy accomplice, I told them in pretty full detail. He was an excellent listener, I must say that for him. With an amused yet appreciative smile, putting in now and then a question shrewd and to the point, he heard my tale to the end. And then he said in a quiet manner which I already realised detracted nothing from the value of his approval—
“You did remarkably well, Mr. Belke. I congratulate you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tiel,” I replied. “And now may I ask you your adventures?”
“Certainly,” said he. “I owe you an explanation.”
II
Tiel’s Story
“How much do you know of our scheme?” asked Tiel.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Merely that you were going to impersonate a clergyman who was due to come here and preach this next Sunday. How you were going to achieve this feat I wasn’t told.”
He leaned back in his chair and sucked at his pipe, and then he began his story with a curious detached air, as though he were surveying his own handiwork from the point of view of an impartial connoisseur.
“The idea was distinctly ingenious,” said he, “and I think I may also venture to claim for it a little originality. I won’t trouble you with the machinery by which we learn things. It’s enough to mention that among the little things we did learn was the fact that the minister of this parish had left for another charge, and that the parishioners were choosing his successor after the Scottish custom—by hearing a number of candidates each preach a trial sermon.” He broke off and asked, “Do you happen to have heard of Schumann?”
“You don’t mean the great Schumann?”
“I mean a certain gentleman engaged in the same quiet line of business as myself. He is known of course under another name in England, where he is considered a very fine specimen of John Bull at his best—a jovial, talkative, commercial gentleman with nice spectacles like Mr. Pickwick, who subscribes to all the war charities and is never tired of telling his friends what he would do with the Kaiser if he caught him.”
I laughed aloud at this happy description of a typical John Bull.
“Well,” he continued, “I suggested to Schumann the wild idea—as it seemed to us at first—of getting into the islands in the guise of a candidate for the parish of Myredale. Two days later Schumann came to me with his spectacles twinkling with excitement.
“ ‘Look at this!’ said he.
“He showed me a photograph in an illustrated paper. It was the portrait of a certain Mr. Alexander Burnett, minister of a parish in the south of Scotland, and I assure you that if the name ‘Adolph Tiel’ had been printed underneath, none of my friends would have questioned its being my own portrait.
“ ‘The stars are fighting for us!’ said Schumann.
“ ‘They seem ready to enlist,’ I agreed.
“ ‘How shall we encourage them?’ said he.
“ ‘I shall let you know tomorrow,’ I said.
“I went home and thought over the problem. From the first I was convinced that the only method which gave us a chance of success was for this man Burnett to enter voluntarily as a candidate, make all the arrangements himself—including the vital matter of a passport—and finally start actually upon his journey. Otherwise, no attempt to impersonate him seemed to me to stand any chance of success.
“Next day I saw Schumann and laid down these conditions, and we set about making preliminary inquiries. They were distinctly promising. Burnett’s parish was a poor one, and from what we could gather, he had already been thinking for some time past of making a change.
“We began by sending him anonymously a paper containing a notice of the vacancy here. That of course was just to set him thinking about it. The next Sunday Schumann motored down to his parish, saw for himself that the resemblance to me was actually quite remarkable, and then after service made the minister’s acquaintance. Imagine the good Mr. Burnett’s surprise and interest when this pleasant stranger proved to be intimately acquainted with the vacant parish of Myredale, and described it as a second Garden of Eden! Before they parted Schumann saw that the fish was hooked.
“The next problem was how to
