Chapter 22

It had been discovered near the place where Merton and Lady Bude were sitting on the previous evening. When found it was lying open, face downwards. In the faint light Merton could see that the book was full of manuscript poems, the lines all blotted and run together by the tropical rain. He thrust it into the pocket of his ulster.

Merton took the most intelligent of the gillies aside. 'Show me where you have searched,' he said. The man pointed to the shores of the cove; they had also examined the banks of the burn, and under all the trees, clearly fearing that the lost pair might have been lightning-struck, like the nymph and swain in Pope's poem. 'You have not searched the cliffs?' asked Merton.

'No, sir,' said the man.

Merton then went to Mr. Macrae, and suggested that the boat should be sent across the sea ferry, to try if anything could be learned in the village. Mr. Macrae agreed, and himself went in the boat, which was presently unmoored, and pulled by two gillies across the loch, that ran like a river with the outgoing tide.

Merton and Bude began to search the cliffs; Merton could hear the hoarse pumping of his own heart. The cliff's base was deep in flags and bracken, then the rocks began climbing to the foot of the perpendicular basaltic crag. The sky, fortunately, was now clear in the west, and lent a wan light to the seekers. Merton had almost reached the base of the cliff, when, in the deep bracken, he stumbled over something soft. He stooped and held back the tall fronds of bracken.

It was the body of a man; the body did not stir. Merton glanced to see the face, but the face was bent round, leaning half on the earth. It was Blake. Merton's guess seemed true. They had fallen from the cliffs! But where was that other body? Merton yelled to Bude. Blake seemed dead or insensible.

Merton (he was ashamed of it presently) left the body of Blake alone; he plunged wildly in and out of the bracken, still shouting to Bude, and looking for that which he feared to find. She could not be far off. He stumbled over rocks, into rabbit holes, he dived among the soaked bracken. Below and around he hunted, feverishly panting, then he set his face to the sheer cliff, to climb; she might be lying on some higher ledge, the shadow on the rocks was dark. At this moment Bude hailed him.

'Come down!' he cried, 'she cannot be there!'

'Why not?' he gasped, arriving at the side of Bude, who was stooping, with a lantern in his hand, over the body of Blake, which faintly stirred.

'Look!' said Bude, lowering the lantern.

Then Merton saw that Blake's hands were bound down beside his body, and that the cords were fastened by pegs to the ground. His feet were fastened in the same way, and his mouth was stuffed full of wet seaweed. Bude pulled out the improvised gag, cut the ropes, turned the face upwards, and carefully dropped a little whisky from his flask into the mouth. Blake opened his eyes.

'Where are my poems?' he asked.

'Where is Miss Macrae?' shrieked Merton in agony.

'Damn the midges,' said Blake (his face was hardly recognisable from their bites). 'Oh, damn them all!' He had fainted again.

'She has been carried off,' groaned Merton. Bude and he did all that they knew for poor Blake. They rubbed his ankles and wrists, they administered more whisky, and finally got him to sit up. He scratched his hands over his face and moaned, but at last he recovered full consciousness. No sense could be extracted from him, and, as the boat was now visible on its homeward track, Bude and Merton carried him down to the cove, anxiously waiting Mr. Macrae.

He leaped ashore.

'Have you heard anything?' asked Bude.

'They saw a boat on the loch about seven o'clock,' said Mr. Macrae, 'coming from the head of it, touching here, and then pulling west, round the cliff. They thought the crew Sabbath-breakers from the lodge at Alt Garbh. What's that,' he cried, at last seeing Blake, who lay supported against a rock, his eyes shut.

Merton rapidly explained.

'It is as I thought,' said Mr. Macrae resolutely. 'I knew it from the first. They have kidnapped her for a ransom. Let us go home.'

Merton and Bude were silent; they, too, had guessed, as soon as they discovered Blake. The girl was her father's very life, and they admired his resolution, his silence. A gate was taken from its hinges, cloaks were strewn on it, and Blake was laid on this ambulance.

Merton ventured to speak.

'May I take your boat, sir, across to the ferry, and send the fishermen from the village to search each end of the loch on their side? It is after midnight,' he added grimly. 'They will not refuse to go; it is Monday.'

'I will accompany them,' said Bude, 'with your leave, Mr. Macrae, Merton can search our side of the loch, he can borrow another boat at the village in addition to yours. You, at the Castle, can organise the measures for to-morrow.'

'Thank you both,' said Mr. Macrae. 'I should have thought of that. Thank you, Mr. Merton, for the idea. I am a little dazed. There is the key of the boat.'

Merton snatched it, and ran, followed by Bude and four gillies, to the little pier where the boat was moored. He must be doing something for her, or go mad. The six men crowded into the boat, and pulled swiftly away, Merton taking the stroke oar. Meanwhile Blake was carried by four gillies towards the Castle, the men talking low to each other in Gaelic. Mr. Macrae walked silently in front.

Such was the mournful procession that Lady Bude ran out to meet. She passed Mr. Macrae, whose face was set with an expression of deadly rage, and looked for Bude. He was not there, a gillie told her what they knew, and, with a convulsive sob, she followed Mr. Macrae into the Castle.

'Mr. Blake must be taken to his room,' said Mr. Macrae. 'Benson, bring something to eat and drink. Lady Bude, I deeply regret that this thing should have troubled your stay with me. She has been carried off, Mr. Blake has been rendered unconscious; your husband and Mr. Merton are trying nobly to find the track of the miscreants. You will excuse me, I must see to Mr. Blake.'

Mr. Macrae rose, bowed, and went out. He saw Blake carried to a bathroom in the observatory; they undressed him and put him in the hot water. Then they put him to bed, and brought him wine and food. He drank the wine eagerly.

'We were set on suddenly from behind by fellows from a boat,' he said. 'We saw them land and go up from the cove; they took us in the rear: they felled me and pegged me out. Have you my poems?'

'Mr. Merton has the poems,' said Mr. Macrae. 'What became of my daughter?'

'I don't know, I was unconscious.'

'What kind of boat was it?'

'An ordinary coble, a country boat.'

'What kind of looking men were they?'

'Rough fellows with beards. I only saw them when they first passed us at some distance. Oh, my head! Oh damn, how these bites do sting! Get me some ammonia; you'll find it in a bottle on the dressing-table.'

Mr. Macrae brought him the bottle and a handkerchief. 'That is all you know?' he asked.

But Blake was babbling some confusion of verse and prose: his wits were wandering.

Mr. Macrae turned from him, and bade one of the men watch him. He himself passed downstairs and into the hall, where Lady Bude was standing at the window, gazing to the north.

'Indeed you must not watch, Lady Bude,' said the millionaire. 'Let me persuade you to take something and go to bed. I forget myself; I do not believe that you have dined.' He himself sat down at the table, he ate and drank, and induced Lady Bude to join him. 'Now, do let me persuade you to go back and to try to sleep,' said Mr. Macrae gently. 'Your husband is well accompanied.'

'It is not for him that I am afraid,' said the lady, who was in tears.

'I must arrange for the day's work,' said the millionaire, and Lady Bude sighed and left him.

'First,' he said aloud, 'we must get the doctor from Lairg to see Blake. Over forty miles.' He rang. 'Benson,' he said to the butler, 'order the tandem for seven. The yacht to have steam up at the same hour. Breakfast at half-past six.'

The millionaire then went to his own study, where he sat lost in thought. Morning had come before the sound of voices below informed him that Bude and Merton had returned. He hurried down; their faces told him all. 'Nothing?' he asked calmly.

Nothing! They had rowed along the loch sides, touching at every cottage and landing-place. They had learned nothing. He explained his ideas for the day.

'If you will allow me to go in the yacht, I can telegraph from Lochinver in all directions to the police,' said Bude.

'We can use the wireless thing,' said Mr. Macrae. 'But if you would be so good, you could at least see the local police, and if anything occurred to you, telegraph in the ordinary way.'

'Right,' said Bude, 'I shall now take a bath.'

'You will stay with me, Mr. Merton,' said Mr. Macrae.

'It is a dreadful country for men in our position,' said Merton, for the sake of saying something. 'Police and everything so remote.'

'It gave them their chance; they have waited for it long enough, I dare say. Have you any ideas?'

'They must have a steamer somewhere.'

'That is why I have ordered the balloon, to reconnoitre the sea from,' said Mr. Macrae. 'But they have had all the night to escape in. I think they will take her to America, to some rascally southern republic, probably.'

'I have thought of the outer islands,' said Merton, 'out behind the Lewis and the Long Island.'

'We shall have them searched,' said Mr. Macrae. 'I can think of no more at present, and you are tired.'

Merton had slept ill and strangely on the night of Saturday; on Sunday night, of course, he had never lain down. Unshaven, dirty, with haggard eyes, he looked as wretched as he felt.

'I shall have a bath, and then please employ me, it does not matter on what, as long as I am at work for--you,' said Merton. He had nearly said 'for her.'

Mr. Macrae looked at him rather curiously. 'You are dying of fatigue,' he said. 'All your ideas have been excellent, but I cannot let you kill yourself. Ideas are what I want. You must stay with me to-day: I shall be communicating with London and other centres by the Giambresi machine; I shall need your advice, your suggestions. Now, do go to bed: you shall be called if you are needed.'

He wrung Merton's hand, and Merton crept up to his bedroom. He took a bath, turned in, and was wrapped in all the blessedness of sleep.

Before five o'clock the house was astir. Bude, in the yacht, steamed down the coast, touching at Lochinver, and wherever there seemed a faint hope of finding intelligence. But he learned nothing. Yachts and other vessels came and went (on Sundays, of course, more seldom), and if the heiress had been taken straight to sea, northwards or west, round the Butt of Lewis, by night, there could be no chance of news of her. Returning, Bude learned that the local search parties had found nothing but the black ashes of a burned boat in a creek on the south side of the cliffs. There the captors of Miss Macrae must have touched, burned their coble, and taken to some larger and fleeter vessel. But no such vessel had been seen by shepherd, fisher, keeper, or gillie. The grooms arrived from Lairg, in the tandem, with the doctor and a rural policeman. Bude had telegraphed to Scotland Yard from Lochinver for detectives, and to Glasgow, Oban, Tobermory, Salen, in fact to every place he thought likely, with minute particulars of Miss Macrae's appearance and dress. All this Merton learned from Bude, when, long after luncheon time, our hero awoke suddenly, refreshed in body, but with the ghastly blank of misery and doubt before the eyes of his mind.

'I wired,' said Bude, 'on the off chance that yesterday's storm might have deranged the wireless machine, and, by Jove, it is lucky I did. The wireless machine won't work, not a word of message has come through; it is jammed or something. I met Donald Macdonald, who told me.'

'Have you seen our host yet?'

'No,' said Bude, 'I was just going to him.'

They found the millionaire seated at a table, his head in his hands. On their approach he roused himself.

'Any news?' he asked Bude, who shook his head. He explained how he had himself sent various telegrams, and Mr. Macrae thanked him.

'You did well,' he said. 'Some electric disturbance has cut us off from our London correspondent. We sent messages in the usual way, but there has been no reply. You sent to Scotland Yard for detectives, I think you said?'

'I did.'

'But, unluckily, what can London detectives do in a country like this?' said Mr. Macrae.

'I told them to send one who had the Gaelic,' said Bude.

'It was well thought of,' said Mr. Macrae, 'but this was no local job. Every man for miles round has been examined, and accounted for.'

'I hope you have slept well, Mr. Merton?' he asked.

'Excellently. Can you not put me on some work if it is only to copy telegraphic despatches? But, by the way, how is Blake?'

'The doctor is still with him,' said Mr. Macrae; 'a case of concussion of the brain, he says it is. But you go out and take the air, you must be careful of yourself.'

Bude remained with the millionaire, Merton sauntered out to look at the river: running water drew him like a magnet. By the side of the stream, on a woodland path, he met Lady Bude. She took his hand silently in her right, and patted it with her left. Merton turned his head away.

'What can I say to you?' she asked. 'Oh, this is too horrible, too cruel.'

'If I had listened to you and not irritated her I might have been with her, not Blake,' said Merton, with keen self-respect.

'I don't quite see that you would be any the better for concussion of the brain,' said Lady Bude, smiling. 'Oh, Mr. Merton, you _must_ find her, I know how you have worked already. You must rescue her. Consider, this is your chance, this is your opportunity to do something great. Take courage!'

Merton answered, with a rather watery smile, 'If I had Logan with me.'

'With or without Lord Fastcastle, you _must do it_!' said Lady Bude.

They saw Mr. Macrae approaching them deep in thought and advanced to meet him.

'Mr. Macrae,' asked Lady Bude suddenly, 'have you had Donald with you long?'

'Ever since he was a lad in Canada,' answered the millionaire. 'I have every confidence in Donald's ability, and he was for half a year with Gianesi and Giambresi, learning to work their system.'

Donald's honesty, it was clear, he never dreamed of suspecting. Merton blushed, as he remembered that a doubt as to whether the engineer had been 'got at' had occurred to his own mind. For a heavy bribe (Merton had fancied) Donald might have been induced, perhaps by some Stock Exchange operator, to tamper with the wireless centre of communication. But, from Mr. Macrae's perfect confidence, he felt obliged to drop this attractive hypothesis.

They dined at the usual hour, and not long after dinner Lady Bude said good-night, while her lord, who was very tired, soon followed her example. Merton and the millionaire paid a visit to Blake, whom they found asleep, and the doctor, having taken supper and accepted an invitation to stay all night, joined the two other men in the smoking- room. In answer to inquiries about the patient, Dr. MacTavish said, 'It's jist concussion, slight concussion, and nervous shoke. No that muckle the maiter wi' him but a clour on the hairnspan, and midge bites, forbye the disagreeableness o' being clamped doon for a wheen hours in a wat tussock o' bracken.'

This diagnosis, though not perfectly intelligible to Merton, seemed to reassure Mr. Macrae.

'He's a bit concetty, the chiel,' added the worthy physician, 'and it may be a day or twa or he judges he can leave his bed. Jist nervous collapse. But, bless my soul, what's thon?'

'Thon' had brought Mr. Macrae to his feet with a bound. It was the thrill of the electric bell which preluded to communications from the wireless communicator! The instrument began to tick, and to emit its inscribed tape.

'Thank heaven,' cried the millionaire, 'now we shall have light on this mystery.' He read the message, stamped his foot with an awful execration, and then, recovering himself, handed the document to Merton. 'The message is a disgusting practical joke,' he said. 'Some one at the central agency is playing tricks with the instrument.'

'Am I to read the message aloud?' asked Merton.

It was rather a difficult question, for the doctor was a perfect stranger to all present, and the matters involved were of an intimate delicacy, affecting the most sacred domestic relations.

'Dr. MacTavish,' said Mr. Macrae, 'speaking as Highlander to Highlander, these are circumstances, are they not, under the seal of professional confidence?'

The big doctor rose to his feet.

'They are, sir, but, Mr. Macrae, I am a married man. This sad business of yours, I say it with sorrow, will be the talk of the world to-morrow, as it is of the country side to-day. If you will excuse me, I would rather know nothing, and be able to tell nothing, so I'll take my pipe outside with me.'

'Not alone, don't go alone, Dr. MacTavish,' said Merton; 'Mr. Macrae will need his telegraphic operator probably. Let me play you a hundred up at billiards.'

The doctor liked nothing better; soon the balls were rattling, while the millionaire was closeted alone with Donald Macdonald and the wireless thing.

After one game, of which he was the winner, the doctor, with much delicacy, asked leave to go to bed. Merton conducted him to his room, and, returning, was hailed by Mr. Macrae.

'Here is the pleasant result of our communications,' he said, reading aloud the message which he had first received.

'The Seven Hunters. August 9, 7.47 p.m.

'Do not be anxious about Miss Macrae. She is in perfect health, and accompanied by three chaperons accustomed to move in the first circles. The one question is How Much? Sorry to be abrupt, but the sooner the affair is satisfactorily concluded the better. A reply through your Gianesi machine will reach us, and will meet with prompt attention.'

'A practical joke,' said Merton. 'The melancholy news has reached town through Bude's telegrams, and somebody at the depot is playing tricks with the instrument.'

'I have used the instrument to communicate that opinion to the manufacturers,' said Mr. Macrae, 'but I have had no reply.'

'What does the jester mean by heading his communication "The Seven Hunters"?' asked Merton.

'The name of a real or imaginary public-house, I suppose,' said Mr. Macrae.

At this moment the electric bell gave its signal, and the tape began to exude. Mr. Macrae read the message aloud; it ran thus:

'No good wiring to Gianesi and Giambresi at headquarters. You are hitched on to us, and to nobody else. Better climb down. What are your terms?'

'This is infuriating,' said Mr. Macrae. 'It _must_ be a practical joke, but how to reach the operators?'

'Let me wire to-morrow by the old-fashioned way,' said Merton; 'I hear that one need not go to Lairg to wire. One can do that from Inchnadampf, much nearer. That is quicker than steaming to Loch Inver.'

'Thank you very much, Mr. Merton; I must be here myself. You had better take the motor--trouble dazes a man--I forgot the motor when I ordered the tandem this morning.'

'Very good,' said Merton. 'At what hour shall I start?'

'We all need rest; let us say at ten o'clock.'

'All right,' replied Merton. 'Now do, pray, try to get a good night of sleep.'

Mr. Macrae smiled wanly: 'I mean to force myself to read _Emma_, by Miss Austen, till the desired effect is produced.'

Merton went to bed, marvelling at the self-command of the millionaire. He himself slept ill, absorbed in regret and darkling conjecture.

After writing out several telegrams for Merton to carry, the smitten victim of enormous opulence sought repose. But how vainly! Between him and the pages which report the prosings of Miss Bates and Mr. Woodhouse intruded visions of his daughter, a captive, perhaps crossing the Atlantic, perhaps hidden, who knew, in a shieling or a cavern in the untrodden wastes of Assynt or of Lord Reay's country. At last these appearances were merged in sleep.

III. Logan to the Rescue!

As Merton sped on the motor next day to the nearest telegraph station, with Mr. Macrae's sheaf of despatches, Dr. MacTavish found him a very dull companion. He named the lochs and hills, Quinag, Suilvean, Ben Mor, he dwelt on the merits of the trout in the lochs; he showed the melancholy improvements of the old Duke; he spoke of duchesses and of crofters, of anglers and tourists; he pointed to the ruined castle of the man who sold the great Montrose--or did not sell him. Merton was irresponsive, trying to think. What was this mystery? Why did the wireless machine bring no response from its headquarters; or how could practical jokers have intruded into the secret chambers of Messrs. Gianesi and Giambresi? These dreams or visions of his own on the night before Miss Macrae was taken--were they wholly due to tobacco and the liver?

'I thought I was awake,' said Merton to himself, 'when I was only dreaming about the crimson blot on the ceiling. Was I asleep when I saw the tartans go down the stairs? I used to walk in my sleep as a boy. It is very queer!'

'Frae the top o' Ben Mor,' the doctor was saying, 'on a fine day, they tell me, with a glass you can pick up "The Seven Hunters."'

'Eh, what? I beg your pardon, I am so confused by this wretched affair. What did you say you can pick up?'

'Just "The Seven Hunters,"' said the doctor rather sulkily.

'And what are "The Seven Hunters"?'

'Just seven wee sma' islandies ahint the Butt of Lewis. The maps ca' them the Flanan Islands.'

Merton's heart gave a thump. The first message from the Gianesi invention was dated 'The Seven Hunters.' Here was a clue.

'Are the islands inhabited?' asked Merton.

'Just wi' wild goats, and, maybe, fishers drying their fish. And three men in a lighthouse on one of them,' said the doctor.

They now rushed up to the hotel and telegraph office of Inchnadampf. The doctor, after visiting the bar, went on in the motor to Lairg; it was to return for Merton, who had business enough on hand in sending the despatches. He was thinking over 'The Seven Hunters.' It might be, probably was, a blind, or the kidnappers, having touched there, might have departed in any direction--to Iceland, for what he knew. But the name, 'the Seven Hunters,' was not likely to have been invented by a practical joker in London. If not, the conspirators had really captured and kept to themselves Mr. Macrae's line of wireless communications. How could that have been done? Merton bitterly regretted that his general information did not include electrical science.

However, he had first to send the despatches. In one Mr. Macrae informed Gianesi and Giambresi of the condition of their instrument, and bade them send another at once with a skilled operator, and to look out for probable tamperers in their own establishment. This despatch was in a cypher which before he got the new invention, and while he used the old wires, Mr. Macrae had arranged with the electricians. The words of the despatch were, therefore, peculiar, and the Highland lass who operated, a girl of great beauty and modesty, at first declined to transmit the message.

'It's maybe no proper, for a' that I ken,' she urged, and only by invoking a local person of authority, and using the name of Mr. Macrae very freely, could Merton obtain the transmission of the despatch.