In those early days of the war one heard a great many tales of spies and spying, but many of them were so palpably absurd and there was as yet such a total lack of evidence to support any one of them, that I—like a good many other people—felt sceptical of the whole thing. The distinguished General in German pay, the well known member of the Cabinet in hourly communication with the Kaiser, the group of German strategists working in the cellars of a West End London mansion, and all the rest of the early legends had made even the very moderately sensible extremely chary of believing anything we heard. But I thought very hard and seriously now. A real spy—seen and heard—actually living in the Isle of Ransay, in the back premises, so to speak, of that all important base, with Heaven only knew what means of the information concerning matters to the south’ard, and in immediate touch with any marauders who might tap gently at the back door on a dark night; here was something to sober even a bankrupt ex-light-comedian.
I kept my mouth very full while I thought these thoughts and conscientiously made the typical German chewing noise, and by the time my lips were cleared for action again a beaming smile enwreathed them.
“Do you have many ships which pass this way?” I enquired.
The question was a great success. Jock laughed with vacant glee and the rest of the family exchanged glances.
“No’ very many,” said Mr. Scollay warily.
Now I decided to give them the John Bull turn.
“No German ships I am sure!” I cried through a mouthful of porridge. “They are cowards! They will not venture here—no fears! They fear our brave sailors too much! Aha! We know that, eh?”
They agreed as coldly as I could wish. Evidently I was producing a thoroughly bad impression. At the same time nobody broke into whispered German, or made any comment that could conceivably be taken for a password. I thought I would try giving them one myself.
“Are there many sheep in this island?” I asked.
Jock emitted another blast of genial laughter and Mr. Scollay as cautiously as ever replied,
“A good few.”
But there was no sign of any secret understanding of my words, and reluctantly I began to come to the conclusion that neither my friend of last night nor any of his confederates were here. It is true that the position of the house fitted my theory, and that its lonely situation on the very edge of the sea was ideal, and quite possibly these people might know more than they ought, they might in fact be abettors of treason and concealers of traitors, but that they were not the principals seemed evident enough.
Still, in any event it seemed to me of prime importance to disseminate a report of a suspicious stranger as widely and quickly as possible, so I selected the middle of another mouthful as the moment of enquiring.
“This pretty farm, my friend, does it belong to you?”
“No,” said my host, “the island a’ belongs to Mr. Rendall.”
“So!” said I. “And this Mr. Rendall, where does he live—in London?”
“Not him!” said Mr. Scollay, “he bides in Ransay.”
I pricked up my ears at this, and my spy-hunt seemed suddenly a much more promising venture. Some of the difficulties of playing a lone hand had already become apparent. But with someone I could confide in, someone who would know everybody in the island and a good deal about them, and who could advise and abet me, it seemed heavy odds against my vanished friend evading me for long.
“I think perhaps I ought to pay my respects to Mr. Rendall,” I said in a doubtful ruminating way, as though I were debating whether it were quite a safe move.
“You’ll find him at home,” was all the comment my host made.
But now that there was a prospect of losing their suspicious visitor, the family all at once set about extracting some information regarding the manner of his arrival in their midst.
“You’ll no have been long in Ransay?” began my hostess.
“Oh no, just a short time,” I beamed.
“You’ll not have come by the boat,” pronounced my host.
“Not the boat, but surely I must have come by a boat!” I smiled. “I cannot swim from Aberdeen!”
I don’t know exactly why I mentioned Aberdeen, but it seemed to have a distinctly sedative effect.
“You’ll not be a dealer?” enquired my host.
Here was a simple solution thrust into my hand. For a moment I thought of confessing I actually was a dealer and had got too drunk last night to remember how I arrived. But then I feared the tale might sound too credible and the reports of a suspicious stranger be stifled at their birth.
“Well,” I said, “I do deal in some things.”
I could see that suspicion had revived and I thought it better to leave it at that, and be off. With a little difficulty I made my hosts take payment for my night’s lodging, and then asked for directions to the laird’s mansion.
“You’ll no can miss it,” said Mr. Scollay.
“It’s the big house. Just keep along the road and you’ll see it afore you.”
So off I set through this unknown isle, still hatless and buttoned up in my oilskin, but smoking a peculiarly soothing pipe and thoroughly enjoying my adventure. The prospect of an ally ahead was delightfully cheering.
“Provided Mr. Rendall isn’t an utter ass, we ought to have these fellows sitting!” I said to myself.
V
The Doctor’s House
The rough road from the shore kept gently mounting and I soon stood high enough to get a very good general idea of the island of Ransay. It was a green, low-lying, undulating fragment of the world, set that morning in a sea of sapphire blue, open to the horizon on the one hand and strewn with sister isles on the other. The Scollay’s house stood near the northwest end, and beyond it there seemed to be little save
