I very soon was made aware that there was no fear of myself going unobserved. At one time or another I caught every eye in that congregation rivetted on me, and it only remained for me to give the proper impression to carry away with them.
As I was unable to see myself as others saw me, I cannot say precisely what effect I produced, but if a habit of looking suddenly and guiltily at the floor when I caught a hard staring eye, a conspicuous difficulty in following the order of the service and knowing what book to be picked up and whether to kneel, sit, or stand, and peculiarly unpleasant shake which I introduced into my top note—if all these manifestations failed to convey the impression that I was a very suspicious person indeed, well, all I can say is that they ought to have done so, and that that congregation must have been singularly deficient in the proper kind of imagination. Of course I could hardly expect a sympathetic signal to be actually made in church, but I did hope my performance would surely bear fruit before many hours had passed.
At last the service ended, the commons crowded out, and the laird and his daughter rose in their wake and greeted the minister on their way to the door. I noticed that they did not introduce me, and also that the Reverend Mr. Mackenzie regarded me—over Miss Rendall’s shoulder—with a sternly suspicious glance. Evidently he had heard ill of me already, and hope burned higher. If the minister had heard dark rumours, surely the spies had! Or anyhow they would when that congregation had all reached their homes (if they were not among the congregation themselves).
We passed again through many eyes in the kirkyard, and then the Rev. Mr. Mackenzie and the laird walked together for a short way and I found myself alone with Miss Jean.
“I didn’t see Dr. Rendall or Mr. O’Brien in church,” I remarked.
“They very seldom come to church,” said she.
“I gather that Mr. O’Brien is visiting the doctor,” I observed.
“Yes,” said she, in a tone that promised little further information.
“Has he been staying with him long?” I preserved.
“For some time.”
“Old friends, I suppose.”
She did not seem to hear me, and I gave it up—in the meanwhile; but to myself I said complacently,
“Some mystery here!”
Presently I remarked,
“There was another face I didn’t see—the island patriarch.”
She looked at me quickly.
“The patriarch—who do you mean?”
“An old gentleman with a white beard, tinted spectacles, and overcoat somewhat the worse for wear. He hailed me on the road yesterday and asked for a match. I imagine he must live somewhere near the doctor’s house.”
She looked very thoughtful for a moment and then said:
“There is no one in the island with tinted spectacles, and nobody in the least like that living anywhere near Dr. Rendall’s.”
I looked at her sharply.
“Are you quite sure?”
She seemed to think again for a moment and then said:
“Perfectly.”
I had something to think about on my way home to lunch.
IX
An Ally
After lunch I set out by myself with pretty high hopes. It seemed to me inconceivable that men (or even one man for the sake of argument, though I felt sure there must be more), who were lurking here on the business this gang were engaged upon, would actually take no steps one way or the other to deal with a stranger who knew of their existence, and who to all seeming was one of their own kidney. I flattered myself by this time that every report they could have heard and every observation they might have made must incline them to the view that it was their duty to get in touch with me again. And now I proposed to take a solitary ramble along the very shore where I had stumbled upon my oilskinned friend, and give them a chance of getting in touch.
It was an afternoon of sunshine and gleaming seas. At first the air was redolent of clover, and then—as I drew near the shore—of seaware. On this day of rest there was hardly anyone to be seen about, so that a quiet meeting by the beach could be simply arranged. Only a meeting implies two, and though I walked right along the coast till I got within a stone’s throw of the Scollays’ farm I remained as solitary as when I started.
I turned back and slowly retraced my steps for a mile or so, my hopes fading and my perplexity increasing.
“What ought I to have done that I haven’t done?” I asked myself. “And what have I done that I oughtn’t to?”
I paused and sat down on the crisp sea turf with a rough stone wall to landward, and below me the shelving rocks and the glassy ocean, and it was then the idea struck me that I might do something to attract attention to my presence. A thoughtful aunt had presented me with a revolver when I got my commission, and as anything to do with hitting things, from cricket balls to pheasants, has always amused me, I used to carry it in my hip pocket regardless of chaff (one happily inspired wag dubbed me “jolly Roger”). I took it out now, descended to the beach, set up a stone as a mark, and proceeded to combine business with pleasure by doing a little fancy shooting. The thing made just enough noise to attract anybody fairly
