Part 13 (2/2)

”We've drawn blank,” Murray remarked, as they ate some sandwiches behind a boulder.

”Yes,” said Andrew. ”If there is anything to be found out, I'd locate it farther east.”

Murray looked at him keenly for a moment and then answered:

”On the whole, I agree with you. It's my business, however, to search where I am told.”

They went downhill soon afterward, and the next day the _Rowan_ sailed west along the coast, carrying d.i.c.k, who had reluctantly consented to go with the others.

CHAPTER X

THE YOUNG OFFICER

It was a fine afternoon when the train ran down from the granite wilds round Cairnsmuir into a broad green valley. Behind, the red heath, strewn with boulders and scarred by watercourses, rolled upward into gathering clouds; in front, yellow stubble fields and smooth meadows lay s.h.i.+ning in the light, with a river flas.h.i.+ng through their midst.

Whitney, watching the scene from a window, thought the change was typical of southern Scotland, which he had found a land of contrasts.

They had left the _Rowan_ where the river mouth opened into a sheltered, hill-girt bay, and walked up a dale that was steeped in quiet pastoral beauty. It led them to a wind-swept tableland, in which lonely, ruffled lakes lay among the stones, and granite outcrops ribbed the desolate heath. There they had caught the train; and now it was running down to well-tilled levels, dotted with trim white houses and marked in the distance by the blue smoke of a town. Andrew had chosen the route to show Whitney the country, and he admitted that it had its charm.

The train slowed down as it approached a station, and when it stopped d.i.c.k jumped up.

”I may be able to get a paper here,” he said, and leaped down on to the station platform, where shepherds with rough collies, cattle-dealers, and quarrymen stood waiting.

d.i.c.k vanished among the crowd; but a few moments later he returned hurriedly, without his paper.

”I nearly ran into old Mackellar!” he exclaimed with a chuckle. ”But I dodged him!”

”Who is Mackellar?” Whitney asked. ”One of your creditors?”

”Worse than that. One of my trustees. I thought I'd better not meet him; he might have felt embarra.s.sed after what he said to me not long ago.”

Alighting at the next station, they walked downhill to the narrow town beside the Cree, and here they arranged to be driven up the waterside to the shooting lodge where Whitney's mother was staying. After standing on the bridge a while they went to the little inn. It was now getting late in the afternoon, the hillside above the town shut out the light, and the room they entered was rather dim. d.i.c.k stopped just inside the door.

”Mackellar!” he exclaimed; and turned to be off.

”d.i.c.k! Ye're not going before ye speak to me?”

”I want to show my friend the town,” he explained with a laugh, but he came forward and shook hands and presented Whitney.

Mackellar was about fifty years of age, strongly built, and dressed in quiet taste. He had a shrewd, thoughtful face, with a hint of command in it, and there was a touch of formality in his manner, but Whitney liked his faint, twinkling smile.

”Weel,” said the Scot, after they had talked a while, ”ye may take your friend out to see the town now, d.i.c.k; but, with Mr. Whitney's leave, I'll keep your cousin here until ye come back.”

Whitney felt amused as he saw that d.i.c.k had failed in his rather obvious intention of preventing the others from enjoying a private talk.

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