SIR EDWARD LEITHEN'S MYSTERIES - Complete Series. Buchan John

drink Dhuniewassel, In cottage and castle—’ That chap?”

      “No, no, somebody quite different. Listen, please, if you’re not too wet, for I want you to help me. Papa has had the most extraordinary letter from somebody called John Macnab, saying he means to kill a stag in our forest between certain dates, and daring us to prevent him. He is going to hand over the beast to us if he gets it and pay fifty pounds, but if he fails he is to pay a hundred pounds. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

      “Some infernal swindler,” said Archie darkly.

      “No, he can’t be. You see the fifty pounds arrived this morning.”

      “God bless my soul!”

      “Yes. In Bank of England notes, posted from London. Papa at first wanted to tell him to go to—well, where Papa tells people he doesn’t like to go. But I thought the offer so sporting that I persuaded him to take up the challenge. Indeed, I wrote the reply myself. Mr Macnab said that the money was to go to a charity, so Agatha is having the fifty pounds for her native weaving and dyeing—she’s frightfully keen about that. But if we win the other fifty pounds papa says the best charity he can think of is to prevent me breaking my neck on hirelings, and I’m to have it to buy a hunter. So I’m very anxious to find out about Mr John Macnab.”

      “Probably some rich Colonial who hasn’t learned manners.”

      “I don’t think so. His manners are very good, to judge by his letter. I think he is a gentleman, but perhaps a little mad. We simply must beat him, for I’ve got to have that fifty pounds. And—and I want you to help me.”

      “Oh, well, you know—I mean to say—I’m not much of a fellow…”

      “You’re very clever, and you’ve done all kinds of things. I feel that if you advised us we should win easily, for I’m sure you had far harder jobs in the war.”

      To have a pretty young woman lauding his abilities and appealing with melting eyes for his aid was a new experience in Sir Archie’s life. It was so delectable an experience that he almost forgot its awful complications. When he remembered them he flushed and stammered.

      “Really, I’d love to, but I wouldn’t be any earthly good. I’m an old crock, you see. But you needn’t worry—your Glenraden gillies will make short work of this bandit…By Jove, I hope you get your hunter, Miss Raden. You’ve got to have it somehow. Tell you what, if I’ve any bright idea I’ll let you know.”

      “Thank you so much. And may I consult you if I’m in difficulties?”

      “Yes, of course. I mean to say, No. Hang it, I don’t know, for I don’t like interferin’ with your father’s challenge.”

      “That means you will. Now, you mustn’t wait another moment. Good-bye. Will you come over to lunch at Glenraden?”

      Then she broke off and stared at him. “I forgot. Haven’t you smallpox?”

      “What! Smallpox? Oh, I see! Has old Mother Claybody been putting that about?”

      “She came to tea yesterday twittering with terror, and warned us all not to go within a mile of Crask.”

      Sir Archie laughed somewhat hollowly. “I had a bad toothache and my head tied up, and I daresay I said something silly, but I never thought she would take it for gospel. You see for yourself that I’ve nothing the matter with me.”

      “You’ll have pneumonia the matter with you, unless you hurry home. Good-bye. We’ll expect you to lunch the day after to-morrow.” And with a wave of her hand she was gone.

      The extraordinary fact was that Sir Archie was not depressed by the new tangle which encumbered him. On the contrary, he was in the best of spirits. He hobbled gaily up the by-road to Crask, listened to Leithen, when he met him, with less than half an ear, and was happy with his own thoughts. I am at a loss to know how to describe the first shattering impact of youth and beauty on a susceptible mind. The old plan was to borrow the language of the world’s poetry, the new seems to be to have recourse to the difficult jargon of psychologists and physicians; but neither, I fear, would suit Sir Archie’s case. He did not think of nymphs and goddesses or of linnets in spring; still less did he plunge into the depths of a subconscious self which he was not aware of possessing. The unromantic epithet which rose to his lips was “jolly.” This was for certain the jolliest girl he had ever met— regular young sportswoman and amazingly good-lookin’, and he was dashed if she wouldn’t get her hunter. For a delirious ten minutes, which carried him to the edge of the Crask lawn, he pictured his resourcefulness placed at her service, her triumphant success, and her bright-eyed gratitude.

      Then he suddenly remembered that alliance with Miss Janet Raden was treachery to his three guests. The aid she had asked for could only be given at the expense of John Macnab. He was in the miserable position of having a leg in both camps, of having unhappily received the confidences of both sides, and whatever he did he must make a mess of it. He could not desert his friends, so he must fail the lady; wherefore there could be no luncheon for him, the day after to-morrow, since another five minutes’ talk with her would entangle him beyond hope. There was nothing for it but to have a return of smallpox. He groaned aloud.

      “A twinge of that beastly toothache,” he explained in reply to his companion’s inquiry.

      When the party met in the smoking-room that night after dinner two very weary men occupied the deepest arm-chairs. Lamancha was struggling with sleep; Palliser-Yeates was limp with fatigue, far too weary to be sleepy. “I’ve had the devil of a day,” said the latter. “Wattie took me at a racing gallop about thirty miles over bogs and crags. Lord! I’m stiff and footsore. I believe I crawled more than ten miles, and I’ve no skin left on my knees. But we spied the deuce of a lot of ground, and I see my way to the rudiments of a plan. You start off, Charles, while I collect my thoughts.”

      But Lamancha was supine.

      “I’m too drunk with sleep to talk,” he said. “I prospected all the south side of Haripol—all this side of the Reascuill, you know. I got a good spy from Sgurr Mor, and I tried to get up Sgurr Dearg, but stuck on the rocks. That’s a fearsome mountain, if you like. Didn’t see a blessed soul all day—no rifles out—but I heard a shot from the Machray ground. I got my glasses on to several fine beasts. It struck me that the best chance would be in the corrie between Sgurr Mor and Sgurr Dearg—there’s a nice low pass at the head to get a stag through and the place is rather tucked away from the rest of the forest. That’s as far as I’ve got at present. I want to sleep.”

      Palliser-Yeates was in a very different mood. With an ordnance map spread out on his knees he expounded the result of his researches, waving his pipe excitedly.

      “It’s a stiff problem, but there’s just the ghost of a hope. Wattie admitted that on the way home. Look here, you fellows—Glenraden is divided, like Gaul, into three parts. There’s the Home beat—all the low ground of the Raden glen and the little hills behind the house. Then there’s the Carnbeg beat to the east, which is the best I fancy—very easy going, not very high and with peat roads and tracks where you could shift a beast. Last there’s Carnmore, miles from anywhere, with all the highest tops and as steep as Torridon. It would be the devil of a business, if I got a stag there, to move it. Wattie and I went round the whole marches, mostly on our bellies. No, we weren’t seen—Wattie took care of that. What a noble shikari the old chap is!”

      “Well, what’s your conclusion?” Leithen asked.

      Palliser-Yeates shook his head. “That’s just where I’m stumped. Try to put yourself in old Raden’s place. He has only one stalker and two gillies for the whole forest, for he’s very short-handed, and as a matter of fact he stalks his beasts himself. He’ll consider where John Macnab is likeliest to have his try, and he’ll naturally decide on the Carnmore beat, for that’s by far the most secluded. You may take it from me that he has only enough men to watch one beat properly. But he’ll reflect that John Macnab has got to get his stag away, and he’ll wonder how he’ll manage it on Carnmore, for there’s only one bad track