Johnstone of the Border

"How much do you think the old fellow suspects?" he asked.

"I can't tell. He suspects something, and I didn't try to put him off the track. There were one or two reasons for thinking I'd better not. Anyway, he's to be trusted. Where's that corner buoy?"

Whitney laughed.

"If you were anybody else, I'd wager you wouldn't find it on a night like this. You don't know it was on a corner, to begin with."

"Well," Andrew said, "I'm pretty confident about hitting it in the next few minutes."

He pulled on steadily, while the rain ran down his face and trickled from the dinghy's thwarts. The bank was scarcely distinguishable a few yards away, but the water had not the opaque blackness of the sand, and Whitney scanned its surface narrowly. There was not a ripple, for the stream was slackening, and the channel was smooth as oil except for the disturbance the dinghy made. The water she displaced lapped upon the sand astern, but there was nothing on the narrow dark strip ahead.

"You haven't made a center shot this time," he said presently.

Andrew laughed and, pulling hard on one oar, swung the dinghy round.

"The buoy's certainly not in the water. We'll try the bank. The tide hadn't ebbed so far when we were here last."

They landed, and plowed through slushy sand. At last Whitney caught his foot in a rope.

"You've struck it after all," he laughed, as he followed up the rope to a ring of large net-corks. "Now, we'll get to work."

Returning to the spot where the rope came out of the sand, he began to dig with a spade they had brought; but he did not make much progress. Water and soft ooze ran back into the hole almost as fast as he could throw them out; his heavy boots sank into the yielding ground; and his oilskins hampered him greatly. When he was hot and breathless, Andrew took the spade.

"The fellow who moored the buoy here, didn't mean it to go adrift," he remarked as he flung the wet sand about.

The spade jarred upon something hard, and Andrew worked its edge under the object while Whitney seized the rope. For a time, they tugged and wrenched at it, and then, when they were gasping and splashed all over, a heavy stone slowly rolled out of its muddy bed. Andrew let it lie and walked back a short distance toward higher ground.

"The next step needs care," he said. "We mustn't move the stone far, because that would show that its position had been changed; but the bank is steep and a few yards will make a difference. If I can shorten the depth by half a fathom, it will satisfy me."

Whitney chuckled.

"That ought to be enough. When your draught's pretty deep it's embarrassing to find half a fathom less water than you expect."

Andrew carefully estimated the difference of level along the bank.

"I think we'll put it here," he decided.

It took them some time to move and bury the heavy stone.

"What about the fairway buoy?" Whitney asked when they had finished.

"We'll let that stay. I want our man to get in and his troubles had better not begin until he's going back. The flood would soon float the vessel off if she grounded going up, but it will be a different matter coming down, when the tide's on the ebb."

They pushed the dinghy off and Whitney pulled away against the stream, which was beginning to run up the channel. The rain had got heavier, but they could hear Marshall's hammer as he drove down the stakes. When they were abreast of him, Whitney stopped rowing. For a few minutes the fisherman stood beside the dinghy while Andrew gave him instructions, and then he vanished into the gloom as Whitney pulled away. Andrew lighted a small lantern and, putting it beside a compass in the bottom of the craft, kept his comrade on his course.

"Harder with your left; the tide's on our port bow," he said: "Steady at that; we're round the point. Pull as even as you can."

The sharper rise and fall and the splashing about the craft showed Whitney that they had reached open water, but he had no other guide. They had left no light on the Rowan and black darkness enveloped the dinghy. The faint glow from the lantern in her bottom made it worse, and all that Whitney could see was Andrew's face and the wet front of his sou'wester as he bent over the compass. The rest of his figure melted into the surrounding gloom. Whitney was tired and wet, and gritty sand scraped the backs of his hands as the oilskin sleeves rubbed across them. There was some risk of Andrew's not finding the yacht, and he must pull hard to reach her before the tide got too strong.

This was very different from yachting in hot weather on the Canadian lakes and Long Island Sound; but it had a fascination he would not have thought possible a few months ago. Andrew and he were playing a bold and somewhat dangerous game, the end of which, he thought, could not be long delayed. As an American, he had no stake on it, except, perhaps, his life, but he understood his comrade's patriotic keenness and meant to see him through. Then he had read enough about the sinking of unarmed merchant ships and the drowning of the crews to fire his blood. He thought this was excuse enough for not observing a strict neutrality; then, as he felt the dinghy lurch across the swell and heard the hoarse murmur of the surf upon the shoals, he knew that the sport was in itself engrossing.

He had caught the big gray trout of the lone Northwest, the bass, and the fighting tarpon, but he was now angling for fiercer prey and he hoped the murderous steel monsters that lurked in the dark water would rise to the bait. They were handled with a relentless cunning that struck him as devilish; and Rankine had hinted that two of the largest and fastest were not far away, lying in wait for a huge new battleship that was coming from the Clyde. Whitney could not think calmly of her lurching under, shattered by a torpedo, with her swarming crew. Besides, his partner had resolved that this should not happen.

"Pull with your right!" said Andrew. "She's sagging to lee'ard now."

They crept on against the tide, Whitney panting as he tugged at the oars, for he had enough; and it was with keen satisfaction that he heard Andrew call out presently:

"Hard with your left; let her swing! I see the boat!"

Whitney got a glimpse of a rocking mast, as the dinghy came round, and a few moments afterward he put out his hand to ease the shock as they ran alongside. A quarter of an hour later the anchor was on deck and they went eastward with the flood under easy sail.

"You might put on the kettle. It will be high water before we're up the Firth," Andrew said. "If we can get our business with Staffer done to-morrow, we'll sail again for the wreck as soon as it gets dark."

Whitney hesitated a moment.

"No doubt you see the consequences if we catch our man at work."

"They're obvious, but they must be faced," Andrew said in a hard voice. "I've held back longer than I should, but it wasn't for my own sake and I can't shirk my duty now."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE RECKONING DAY

It was getting dark in the library at Appleyard, and Mackellar stopped speaking when a servant entered to light the lamps. Staffer leaned back in his chair as if the interruption were a relief, but Mackellar sat grim and upright, watching him. Irvine, the other executor of Dick's father's will, nervously fingered his gold-rimmed eye-glasses; and Andrew found the servant's deliberate movements exasperating. He wanted the matter settled. The situation was painful and galling to his family pride; and the cautious way that Mackellar had led up to the climax had tried his patience. So far, Staffer had made no reply.

At last the servant withdrew, and the feeling of tension grew keener after the soft snap of the closing door. They could now see one another's faces, and all looked somewhat strained. No one spoke for a few moments, and Irvine began to polish his eye-glasses with his handkerchief.

"It might now be well if Mr. Staffer would tell us his views," he said. "I think Mr. Mackellar has made ours plain."

Staffer seemed to rouse himself.

"It's obvious that you want to get rid of me. Your suggestion is that I should relinquish control of Dick and leave Appleyard at once?"

"Precisely," said Irvine. "I see no other way."

"Does your demand extend to my sister and niece?"

"Certainly not," Mackellar replied. "We all think it would be an advantage if Mrs. Woodhouse stayed at Appleyard, and, with Dick's consent, we would make her a suitable allowance. The management of the household could not be in better hands."

"That's some relief," said Staffer. "Now, in the ordinary course of things, my authority here would terminate very soon, when Dick is twenty-one, and I should be willing to go then. Is it worth while to make a drastic change, which would inconvenience everybody, for so short a time?"

Andrew was somewhat surprised by Staffer's half conciliatory attitude, but he thought he saw anxiety in the man's face. It looked as if he had some strong reason for not wanting to leave Appleyard just yet.

"Our opinion is that it would be well worth while," Irvine said dryly.

"Suppose I refuse to go? How do you propose to turn me out?"

"We'll apply for the necessary powers," Mackellar answered.

"Do you mind telling me what grounds you mean to urge?"

Mackellar sorted the papers in his hand, and Andrew marked his quiet deliberation. Indeed, in spite of a certain feeling of tension, the proceedings had, so far, been characterized by a curious calm. Perhaps this was because three of the actors were Scotch; but Andrew felt that the calm was deceptive. The situation had strong dramatic force.

"I cannot see why ye should not know," Mackellar replied. "I would begin by proving undue and dangerous influence on a young man of extravagant habits who had been placed in your charge."

"Can you prove it?"

"Weel, these figures relating to money lent and bills discounted, would go some length, particularly when it was shown that ye concealed the part ye took by acting through agents."

He read out particulars of the money borrowed, with the high rate of interest charged, and traced the transactions back to Staffer through other hands. It was a telling accusation and Andrew thought Staffer was surprised and alarmed by Mackellar's knowledge.

"I'm not sure that we could not establish a charge o' conspiracy," Mackellar concluded.

"There is no fraud!" Staffer declared hotly. "The terms were stated; Dick knew what he would have to pay."

"He did not know to whom he would have to pay it," Irvine interposed.

Staffer was silent for a moment.

"You can do nothing without Dick's consent," he said slowly. "Why did you not let him speak for himself? Are you afraid of him?"

"We found ye had sent him to Dumfries, and we thought ye would prefer that he was not consulted yet. But there's another matter: the insurance policy, by which we have ground for believing ye would ultimately benefit."

"What do you know about that?"

"At present we do not know everything, but there's much that we suspect, considering the state o' Dick's health."

Staffer looked at him keenly.

"Do you imply that Dick's health is very bad?" he asked.

"Ye should ken."

Andrew thought Staffer looked puzzled, as if he suspected the other of knowing more than he did himself.

"Well, is it your intention to dispute my claim or disown Dick's debts?"

Mackellar took up a paper.

"No' at all. Here's a memorandum of our terms, which ye would be wise in agreeing to. I'll read them out."

Staffer smiled.

"Then if threats prove useless, you mean to bribe me to go! Very well. Give me another three months here, and I'll accept."

"Our offer is made on the understanding that you leave at once."

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to turn me out – and you may find it rather hard. But you haven't answered a point I raised. Suppose Dick takes my side and insists upon my staying?"

"Our being executors would warrant our interference; and there's another party on whose behalf we could make a plea. Mr. Andrew Johnstone could claim the protection o' his interest as the next heir, on the grounds o' the direct inheritor's dangerous health."

"Would you urge this in court?"

"If we were forced," Mackellar said dryly.

Staffer's self-control gave way and he turned to Andrew with a savage, sneering laugh.

"So you are responsible for the extraordinary line these gentlemen have taken! You have been counting on your cousin's death!"

Andrew flushed.

"As you well know, I came home from Canada to take care of him. Still, I agree with the executors. If you can still persuade Dick to believe in you, he must be saved in spite of himself."

Staffer gave him a curious look. It was plain that Andrew was his most troublesome antagonist. There was something in Staffer's expression that disturbed the others.

"Very well," he said. "You must do what you think fit. I shall remain at Appleyard."

He rose, as if to intimate that there was no more to be said; and Andrew accompanied the others to the car that was waiting at the door, and afterward found Whitney and told him what they had done.

"You'll have to be careful, partner," Whitney cautioned. "He might be dangerous now."

"Well," Andrew replied thoughtfully, "I must try to avoid risks. But we must get down the Firth, to-night, and you'd better bring the motorcycle round as soon as you can."

A quarter of an hour later, Andrew came downstairs, dressed in a thick jersey and his old boating clothes and met Elsie in the hall. She thought his face looked unusually stern.

"Are you going to sea again, to-night?" she asked, in surprise.

"Yes; I didn't know beforehand whether I could get away until to-morrow. As a matter of fact, I don't want to go at all, but I must."

She put her hand gently on his arm.

"If you feel it's your duty, you must go; but I'm anxious, Andrew, and you'll be careful for my sake. You see, I have come to depend on you, and I feel that something is threatening us all."

He thrilled at her touch, and it cost him a stern effort to stand as if unmoved while he noted the tenderness in her eyes and the flicker of color in her face.

"You mustn't imagine things."

"Tell me the truth, Andrew. Am I mistaken?"

"Well," he said quietly, "perhaps Appleyard has, so to speak, been under a cloud for a little while, but I see the light breaking. In fact, the shadow may be gone in the next few days. But you may need some courage – and I know you have it."

"Ah!" she said. "You mean that something may happen here?"

"I'm sorry I can't tell you anything now," Andrew replied, with an embarrassed air. "I may be able to do so when I come back."

She gave him her hand with a gentle look.

"Then I must wait. But you won't be rash. Remember that I shall be anxious about you!"

He left her and for a while she sat quietly in the hall. Andrew was not going on a shooting cruise; it was some more serious business. She had already connected it with Rankine and the sinking of the merchant ships. The reasons that led her to this conclusion were not very clear, but she felt that Williamson and the man with the red mustache had something to do with the matter. She wondered whether she ought to warn Andrew; but she felt that she could not betray her uncle unless she was certain that Andrew was in danger.

She roused herself when she heard the car outside. Madge Whitney was coming to spend a week with them. Shortly after Madge's arrival, Dick returned from Dumfries, looking ill; and when the party gathered in the drawing-room after dinner, conversation dragged. It was a relief when Mrs. Woodhouse suggested that they go to bed. Elsie went with Madge to her room, and they sat together on a low divan before the fire.

"Now," Madge said, "what's the matter with you all?"

"I don't know," said Elsie. "I don't feel very gay; but you didn't cheer us much. I'm sorry your head aches."

"The trip was pretty bad. But I had a little adventure."

Madge smiled charmingly.

"What?" Elsie asked indifferently.

"When we stopped at Dumfries, I got out to get a paper, and as I ran along the platform I bumped into a man who'd come from the cars across the track. He had his hands full of things and said a kind of swear in German, when he dropped them all about."

"In German!" Elsie exclaimed.

"Sure. Well, I didn't want him to miss the train, so I picked up the nearest thing. It was a nice little box that flew open, and I thought it had a clock in it. He got into my car and began to apologize in very good English, and then I asked him what was in the box. I thought he hesitated, but he showed me that it was a compass, with a brass thing that turned around its top and had two little slits for looking through."

"An azimuth; Andrew has one. They're used when you want to be accurate in taking bearings. But go on."

"There's not much more. He was rather a charming man and had been in America. We talked all the way to Annan, where he got out."

"What was he like?"

"Tall and big with a sunburned face, very light blue eyes, hair between red and brown. He looked like a sailor – a captain or something of the kind, though he was dressed plainly in thick, blue clothes and had a bundle of oil slickers."

"Had he a red mustache?"

"He had none at all, but I guess it would be red if he let it grow. Do you know him?"

"No," Elsie said quietly; "at least, I'm not sure."

Madge gave her a keen look.

"You make me curious; I went into detail because you are more interested than you want to show. Of course, I thought it strange that a man who spoke good English should relieve his feelings in German when he felt annoyed, and afterward try to convince me that he wasn't a foreigner. I think he did try and that was the reason he talked so much."

"I was thinking about the compass; you said it was in a nice little box. They use things like that on small yachts and boats."

"This one was about as long as your hand. Where does the other track that runs into Dumfries come from?"

"From Glasgow."

"Oh!" said Madge. "You build warships there, don't you?"

She opened her traveling bag and took out a time-table which contained a map of Scotland.

"Look at this," she said, indicating Stranraer, Portpatrick, and Ramsey. "Rankine's been at these places, because I've had notes from him, and you see how they command the way out from the Clyde. His business doesn't stop at making charts."

"Has he told you so?"

"No." Madge blushed prettily. "Still, he's admitted something; you see, we are friends. Besides, he's a smart officer; they wouldn't waste a man like him on taking soundings. That would be quite absurd."

Elsie's smile was sympathetic, for she thought she understood her friend's belief in Rankine's talents.

"He's here on guard in the west," Madge went on; "Andrew's there, about half way between him and Annan; and now we have a German sailor, who speaks English and has a boat-compass, at the head of the Solway Firth."

Elsie made an abrupt movement, for Madge had found the missing link and the chain was complete. Men were working night and day at armaments and warships on the Clyde. Her face was troubled, but her lips set firm, for she began to see that she could no longer keep her secret. The time when she must act had come.

"I think you have guessed right," she said after a moment or two.

"Then you understand that we have some responsibility."

"I don't see yours."

The color crept into Madge's face.

"Oh, well! For one thing, my brother's with Andrew." Then she put her arm impulsively round Elsie's waist. "We've got to see this through, dear."

Elsie's reserve gave way.

"Yes," she answered steadily; "we must. The man you met has been at Appleyard when they thought we were all asleep – and I'm afraid he'll be here again."

Madge showed no surprise.

"I know how you're fixed. But think! Andrew and Jim may be in danger. We can't let them get hurt."

"That's impossible! But what must we do?"

"Watch for the German sailor, first of all," Madge advised. "Try to find out what he has come for, and spoil the plot. I'm glad you gave me the room next to yours. I can reach you by that inner door, if it's necessary." She leaned forward and kissed Elsie. "Now you must go to bed, dear. You look anxious and tired."

CHAPTER XXVIII

A WILD RIDE

Elsie went to sleep at last, but her rest was broken and once or twice she awoke with a start. She was uneasy and highly strung, but she heard nothing unusual. The wind moaned about the house and the splash of the little burn rose from the glen. Staffer had gone out before dinner and as he had not come back when she went to bed, she did not think any stranger would visit Appleyard. Telling herself that she must not indulge in nerves, she went to sleep again. Some time later, when lying half awake, she heard a soft rattle; and her heart beat fast, for she knew that the handle of her door was being gently turned. She was glad that she had locked it, though this was the first time she had ever done so.

The sound stopped, a board in the passage creaked, and as the shock of alarm began to pass, Elsie guessed that it was Staffer trying to make sure that she was in her room. This implied that he was going downstairs to meet some one; but she waited until she got calmer, wondering if, after all, she had been mistaken. Staffer could not have returned until late, and it was strange he had allowed his visitor to risk coming to the house when he might be out. She tried to believe he had not done so; but when she heard a faint tap on the other door, which opened into Madge's room, there was no longer any doubt. Nerving herself for a painful effort, she got up and hastily put on some clothes. Then she went into the other room and saw Madge's shadowy figure standing by the window.

"You heard it?" Madge whispered. "Somebody's gone down. Do you know who it is?"

"Yes… It is my uncle."

Madge put out her hand in the darkness and squeezed Elsie's cold little fingers sympathetically.

"You have to choose between him and Andrew, dear," she said.

"Yes," Elsie agreed in a strange, toneless way.

"Then we must find out what's going on. My brother's on board the Rowan too, you must remember – and there's the survey ship. I was thinking of them all and I couldn't sleep."

"Are you ready to come down?" Elsie asked.

Madge shivered as she opened the door. It was very dark and cold in the passage, and she shrank from the adventure; but she followed Elsie, when the girl quietly locked the door, taking out the key. Elsie had better cause to hesitate than Madge, but her resolution was fixed. Andrew might be threatened and that was enough. She loved him, and he loved her, though he had tried to hide it. He was hers, and, with a woman's deep-rooted instincts, she was ready to fight for him. The choice she had made was no longer hard. Her uncle had now no claim on her; he was her lover's enemy. For the time, all complexities had vanished; Elsie was driven by primitive impulses. She would protect Andrew as a mother protects her child.

As they approached the top of the stairs, she put out her hand and stopped Madge.

"Not this way," she whispered. "Follow me close. We'll go down by the back."

They turned into a passage that led through the servants' part of the house. It was dark and narrow, but Elsie moved down the middle and Madge kept behind her. When they reached a small, back landing, Elsie guided her to a hole in the floor, and, putting down her foot cautiously, Madge felt a step. They were newel stairs and the stone struck cold through her stockings as she tried to find the broader side. When she reached level ground, she crept forward behind Elsie, across a large empty space which seemed to be the kitchen. The next moment Madge struck something that jarred noisily on the floor, and she and Elsie stopped with frightened gasps. The sound seemed to echo through the house.

They waited, listening with tingling nerves, but all was silent, and they crept on until they came to a closed door. Elsie, putting both hands on the knob, turned it cautiously. The latch clicked and they stopped again; but heard nothing. The gloom in front was impenetrable, but a draught of cold air touched their faces and Madge thought they were looking into the hall. After a few moments, she heard a sound that suggested a chair being moved, and then a half-distinguishable murmur. It seemed to come from somewhere near by.