I remembered my uncle’s injunctions distinctly. I also remembered my cousin’s cautions and my own good resolutions. A woman, of all things, I was to beware of; but I knew I was perfectly safe to throw overboard the whole collection of cautions: and already I had a strong suspicion I should be far from a loser by it. Miss Rendall seemed, in fact, to have distinctly more natural capacity for detective work than I had, judging by her performances so far.
So I plunged straight into the tale of my first landing on Ransay and my adventure with the oilskinned man on the shore, and may I always have as attentive an audience when I tell a story.
“So there is actually a German who dares to live on Ransay!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing a little.
“A man whom I certainly took to be a German—a man who talks German fluently.”
She fell very thoughtful and presently repeated,
“Middle-sized—with a beard—and dark eyes?”
“Yes,” I said confidently; for somehow or other I began to feel singularly sure of these features.
“Of course I know who you suspect,” she said, looking up suddenly. “And you had him removed from the island afterwards.”
“You mean O’Brien? Yes, I did suspect him—though, mind you, I had nothing to go on. Do you know if he talked German?”
“He once told me he did, but I never heard him, and I didn’t believe him.”
“Why not?”
“One couldn’t believe half he said, and I don’t think he intended one to. He was very Irish. But I don’t believe he was the man.”
“Why not?” I asked again.
“Oh, just because I don’t. And what happened next?”
I told her of my night at the Scollays’ and my plan for trapping the spies. My self-respect as a criminal catcher was distinctly soothed to hear her hearty approval of this scheme.
“It was awfully ingenious,” she said decidedly. “I can’t imagine a better plan, and you did it so well that you took us all in completely. I suppose you felt you had to count us among the suspicious characters, but what a pity you hadn’t confided in father or me as it happened! We would have done everything we could to help you. I’d have loved to spread dreadful rumours about you!”
“I’m sure you would,” I said, “but as things turned out, and in the light of what has happened since, I believe you saved my life by arresting me.”
She turned on me and asked breathlessly.
“Did they guess who you really were? Did they try to do anything to you?”
“Merely murder me, as they murdered poor Bolton. The first attempt was made that night on the shore.”
I saw her lips parting as I neared the end of telling her that story, and the instant I finished she cried,
“Of course you thought it was father!”
I did my best to shuffle out, but she was a hopeless person to try to deceive.
“It was quite natural you should,” she said, “but I can tell you something now that throws some light on things. Next morning I heard that a man had been calling for you after dinner and was told that you had gone out with me. And the funny thing was that the maid didn’t know him by sight, or know his voice. He kept his face rather hidden, she said, and talked in a low voice. Of course it simply increased our suspicions of you. But that was how they knew where you were! And that was the man who tried to kill you.”
“And who’d have done it for certain if he had found me at home that night,” I added.
I must frankly confess that this little incident made me feel uncomfortable. The audacity of the steps my enemies took, their remorseless thoroughness, the extraordinary completeness with which they covered their tracks, their appearances from nowhere and disappearances into space, were particularly nasty to contemplate with Bolton’s fate so fresh in my mind.
“They are pretty thorough,” I said.
She seemed to divine the thoughts behind this remark.
“But they haven’t suspected you yet,” she said reassuringly, “and they mustn’t! And now, tell me some more, Mr. Merton.”
So I went on telling her more:—about the man with spectacles, the shooting episode, every single thing in fact I could remember. As we neared the house we walked more and more slowly, but my tale was barely finished when we got there.
“You’ll come in, won’t you?” she said. “I know father is out, so we can go on talking.”
She saw me hesitate and her colour faintly rose.
“You do trust me now, surely!” she said.
“All the way, Miss Rendall. But these devils may be on to my track at any moment, and if they suspect you are in my confidence—”
“What nonsense!” she cried, “if there’s any risk I want to share it. For the credit of our island these people have got to be hunted down, and I’d like them to know I’m hunting them! Besides, there’s rather a nice cake for tea; you must come in.”
And in we went.
XIII
Jean’s Guesses
“Come into father’s room and then you can smoke,” said Jean.
It was the same pleasant, well-remembered room into which she had shown me that day when I first made her acquaintance, and as I followed her in now it struck me forcibly that I had taken the wrong turning that August morning. If I had taken these people into my confidence then, I should at least have started on the right road. Better than ever I realised what tricks my instincts play me. Or perhaps it may be my efforts to regulate them by the light of what I am pleased to call my reason that produce such unhappy results.
“I am wondering how they found you out,” she began. “It seems so mysterious that they should have suddenly started to try and murder you
