John Buchan - The Collected Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

Heritage was wrinkling his brows. “I don’t think I quite understand. The jewels? You have them with you?”

She nodded.

“These men wanted to rob you. Why didn’t they do it between here and Auchenlochan? You had no chance to hide them on the journey. Why did they let you come here where you were in a better position to baffle them?”

She shook her head. “I cannot explain—except, perhaps, that Spidel had not arrived that night, and Leon may have been waiting instructions.”

The other still looked dissatisfied. “They are either clumsier villains than I take them to be, or there is something deeper in the business than we understand. These jewels—are they here?”

His tone was so sharp that she looked startled—almost suspicious. Then she saw that in his face which reassured her. “I have them hidden here. I have grown very skilful in hiding things.”

“Have they searched for them?”

“The first day they demanded them of me. I denied all knowledge. Then they ransacked this house—I think they ransack it daily, but I am too clever for them. I am not allowed to go beyond the verandah, and when at first I disobeyed there was always one of them in wait to force me back with a pistol behind my head. Every morning Leon brings us food for the day—good food, but not enough, so that Cousin Eugenie is always hungry, and each day he and Spidel question and threaten me. This afternoon Spidel has told me that their patience is at an end. He has given me till tomorrow at noon to produce the jewels. If not, he says I will die.”

“Mercy on us!” Dickson exclaimed.

“There will be no mercy for us,” she said solemnly. “He and his kind think as little of shedding blood as of spilling water. But I do not think he will kill me. I think I will kill him first, but after that I shall surely die. As for Cousin Eugenie, I do not know.”

Her level matter-of-fact tone seemed to Dickson most shocking, for he could not treat it as mere melodrama. It carried a horrid conviction. “We must get you out of this at once,” he declared.

“I cannot leave. I will tell you why. When I came to this country I appointed one to meet me here. He is a kinsman who knows England well, for he fought in your army. With him by my side I have no fear. It is altogether needful that I wait for him.”

“Then there is something more which you haven’t told us?” Heritage asked.

Was there the faintest shadow of a blush on her cheek? “There is something more,” she said.

She spoke to Heritage in French, and Dickson caught the name “Alexis” and a word which sounded like “prance.” The Poet listened eagerly and nodded. “I have heard of him,” he said.

“But have you not seen him? A tall man with a yellow beard, who bears himself proudly. Being of my mother’s race he has eyes like mine.”

“That’s the man she was askin’ me about yesterday,” said Dougal, who had squatted on the floor.

Heritage shook his head. “We only came here last night. When did you expect Prince—your friend.”

“I hoped to find him here before me. Oh, it is his not coming that terrifies me. I must wait and hope. But if he does not come in time another may come before him.”

“The ones already here are not all the enemies that threaten you?”

“Indeed, no. The worst has still to come, and till I know he is here I do not greatly fear Spidel or Leon. They receive orders and do not give them.”

Heritage ran a perplexed hand through his hair. The sunset which had been flaming for some time in the unshuttered panes was now passing into the dark. The girl lit a lamp after first shuttering the rest of the windows. As she turned up the wick the odd dusty room and its strange company were revealed more clearly, and Dickson saw with a shock how haggard was the beautiful face. A great pity seized him and almost conquered his timidity.

“It is very difficult to help you,” Heritage was saying. “You won’t leave this place, and you won’t claim the protection of the law. You are very independent, Mademoiselle, but it can’t go on for ever. The man you fear may arrive at any moment. At any moment, too, your treasure may by discovered.”

“It is that that weighs on me,” she cried. “The jewels! They are my solemn trust, but they burden me terribly. If I were only rid of them and knew them to be safe I should face the rest with a braver mind.”

“If you’ll take my advice,” said Dickson slowly, “you’ll get them deposited in a bank and take a receipt for them. A Scotch bank is no’ in a hurry to surrender a deposit without it gets the proper authority.”

Heritage brought his hands together with a smack. “That’s an idea. Will you trust us to take these things and deposit them safely?”

For a little she was silent and her eyes were fixed on each of the trio in turn. “I will trust you,” she said at last. “I think you will not betray me.”

“By God, we won’t!” said the Poet fervently. “Dogson, it’s up to you. You march off to Glasgow in double quick time and place the stuff in your own name in your own bank. There’s not a moment to lose. D’you hear?”

“I will that.” To his own surprise Dickson spoke without hesitation. Partly it was because of his merchant’s sense of property, which made him hate the thought that miscreants should acquire that to which they had no title; but mainly it was the appeal in those haggard childish eyes. “But I’m not going to be tramping the country in the night carrying a fortune and seeking for trains that aren’t there. I’ll go the first thing in the morning.”

“Where are they?” Heritage asked.

“That I do not tell. But I will fetch them.”

She left the room, and presently returned with three odd little parcels wrapped in leather and tied with thongs of raw hide. She gave them to Heritage, who held them appraisingly in his hand and then passed them on to Dickson.

“I do not ask about their contents. We take them from you as they are, and, please God, when the moment comes they will be returned to you as you gave them. You trust us, Mademoiselle?”

“I trust you, for you are a soldier. Oh, and I thank you from my heart, my friends.” She held out a hand to each, which caused Heritage to grow suddenly very red.

“I will remain in the neighbourhood to await developments,” he said. “We had better leave you now. Dougal, lead on.”

Before going, he took the girl’s hand again, and with a sudden movement bent and kissed it. Dickson shook it heartily. “Cheer up, Mem,” he observed. “There’s a better time coming.” His last recollection of her eyes was of a soft mistiness not far from tears. His pouch and pipe had strange company jostling them in his pocket as he followed the others down the ladder into the night.

Dougal insisted that they must return by the road of the morning. “We daren’t go by the Laver, for that would bring us by the public-house. If the worst comes to the worst, and we fall in wi’ any of the deevils, they must think ye’ve changed your mind and come back from Auchenlochan.”

The night smelt fresh and moist as if a break in the weather were imminent. As they scrambled along the Garple Dean a pinprick of light below showed where the tinklers were busy by their fire. Dickson’s spirits suffered a sharp fall and he began to marvel at his temerity. What in Heaven’s name had he undertaken? To carry very precious things, to which certainly he had no right, through the enemy to distant Glasgow. How could he escape the notice of the watchers? He was already suspect, and the sight of him back again in Dalquharter would double that suspicion. He must brazen it out, but he distrusted his powers with such tell-tale stuff in his pockets. They might murder him anywhere on the moor road or in an empty railway carriage. An unpleasant memory of various novels he had read in which such things happened haunted his mind… There was just one consolation. This job over, he would be quit of the whole business. And honourably quit, too, for he would have played a manly part in a most unpleasant affair. He could retire to the idyllic with the knowledge that he had not been wanting when Romance called. Not a soul should ever hear of it, but he saw himself in the future tramping green roads or sitting by his winter fireside pleasantly retelling himself the tale.