had mentioned that a stranger had arrived at the manse, but just as he had known on the Brixton stairlanding that the rooms were empty, Grant now had a feeling that his man was here.
It was eleven before he began to fish, and for an hour or more no human activity other than his own broke the perfect peace of the morning. The two chimneys of the manse continued to smoke lazily into the bright air. The river babbled its eternal nursery-rhyme song at his feet, and the water slid under his eyes with a mesmeric swiftness. Away to his right beyond the distant bridge the whitewashed houses by the shore showed over the slight rise of the moor, placid and sunlit as a stage setting. Grant began to feel that the whole thing was a picture, like the illustration from which he had first learned French in his youth, and that he was merely stuck down there by the river so that the picture might be complete. He was not Grant of the C.I.D.; he was pêcheur, to be pointed at with a wooden wand that tickled, for the education of some one unknown. A postman coming from the village, leaning heavily and alternately on the pedals of a push-bike, broke the spell. It was still a picture, but he no longer belonged to it. It was a stage setting—one of the tiny exhibition ones—and he was the giant who was going to upset the whole box of tricks. And, even as he thought it, the iron gate in the low wall of the manse swung open, and a girl came out, followed by a man. They shut the gate with difficulty and some laughter, and turned in single file down the footpath towards the bridge. Grant was still nearly a hundred yards above the house, and neither of them had noticed him. The man was dressed in flannel trousers, an old trench-coat, and a cap, and, except for his slightness, was as unlike the figure that had flung itself into the maelstrom of the Strand traffic as might well be. Grant was conscious of slight surprise. Revolving the matter during his long journey north, he had taken for granted that the man would look out of place. A London bookmaker’s clerk would not be thrown into the western Highlands at a moment’s notice and look like an habitué. Well, it might not be the man, after all. He hoped that they were making for the bridge and his side of the river, and not for the village. Surely, if they had set out for the village, they would have gone out by the front way and walked along the high road? He watched in suspense until he saw the girl turn to the bridge. But there was still a chance that they were going straight on by the high road past Carninnish House. Grant expelled a thankful breath as once more the girl turned riverwards and her companion joined her. They were coming up the river to him. They would pass only a few yards at his back. Industriously he flung a gleaming cast to the far side of the pool. He must not look their way again. In a minute or two they would have spotted him. He felt grateful to the ancient hat that collapsed more than drooped over his face, and to the shapeless garments that clothed him. His boots, too, were convincing even to the most suspicious eye. It had been no case of dressing the part this time; he was the genuine article, and he was glad of it. There would be no amateurish cast to attract the practised eye of Miss Dinmont—it must be Miss Dinmont. No suggestion of “towniness” about his clothes to call forth comment and her partner’s instant interest. Suddenly above the swirl of the water he could hear their voices, raised because of the river’s accompaniment. They were still laughing and animated, and apparently very good friends. Grant did not look round as they passed, nor did he look round immediately they had passed. If he glanced round now, a curious look from the man would have found his face revealed. But as they retreated upriver he watched them. Was it Lamont? He tried to picture the man’s walk again. Short of developing a limp, it is almost impossible to disguise a walk successfully. But he could not be sure. And then the man looked back suddenly. Grant was too far away to see his face, but the movement told him all he wanted to know. It was so vivid that, before his reason had time to note it, his mind was back at the bottom of Bedford Street. There was no doubt of it—the man was Lamont. Grant’s heart sang. Had Lamont known him? He thought not. How could he? It was mere bad conscience that had made him turn. If he asked Miss Dinmont about him, he would hear that no one who was not staying at Carninnish House was allowed to fish the water, and he would be reassured.
And now what? Go to the house when he returned and arrest him straight away? He had the warrant in his pocket. But suddenly he wanted to be assured—assured beyond the possibility of doubt—that Lamont was the man who had murdered Sorrell. They knew that he was the man who had quarrelled with Sorrell before his death. But that was not proof. The link that connected him with the knife was still missing. Before he would risk executing the warrant he wanted to find out if Lamont’s left hand bore the scar made by the knife. If it did not, then his case fell to pieces. However certain he himself might be, there must be no gaps in the evidence that would be put before a jury, and as long as there was a possible gap in the evidence, Grant had no intention of arresting any one. He must get himself invited to the manse. It should not be difficult. If all else failed, he could fall into the river and appeal to them to dry him.
He was eating the sandwiches provided by the Garnie Hotel, on a boulder half in and half out of the water, when the couple came back. They went swinging past him down to the bridge and into the village, and presently he saw them reappear and come back to the manse by the high road. It was lunchtime. They were safely occupied for an hour at least, and directly under his eye.
He was carefully wrapping up the remaining sandwiches against a lean time to come when the local policeman appeared from upriver pushing a punctured push-bicycle. He slowed down when he saw Grant—if his previous leisurely progress could admit of any retarding without bringing him to a stop—and as Grant looked up, the last semblance of progression ceased.
“Having any luck, sir?” asked the policeman. He had a face like a very pink waxwork, round and devoid of expression, and one glance at him made Grant thankful for the discovery of Drysdale. His pale blue eyes were fringed like a doll’s, with fine black lashes, and an unconvincing moustache of silky black made a line on his upper lip. His fat, soft body could neither hurry nor take cover; that slow brain would be of no use whatever in an emergency.
Grant admitted that he had caught nothing, but added that he had hardly expected to on such a bright morning.
“Yes, that’s so,” said the man; “but it won’t be long like that. There’s never a day but there’s some rain here. You’ll catch a fish before night.”
Grant recognized this as the Highlander’s usual desire to say the thing he thinks will be acceptable to his hearer. “You haven’t had the best of luck yourself,” he said, indicating the tire.
“Indeed, I have not. These ro’ds are the very ruin on tires. Not but what I get an allowance for them, you know, but there’s others isn’t so lucky. Mr. Logan, the minister”—he jerked his head over at the manse—“was just saying to me the other day that ministers should have a tire-allowance as well as the pollis. He had three tires of his car punctured in one week. It would put even a minister in a temper.”
“Are there many motors in Carninnish?”
“Well, Mr. Drysdale has two, as I expect you know, and Mr. Logan has one, but that’s all. The other minister has a side-car.”
But when some one wanted to hire, what did they do?
Oh, as to that, the hotel had a Ford for visitors. They hired out that when they weren’t needing it themselves. A Ford in the constable’s opinion evidently did not come under the heading “cars.”
Presently the constable said, “There’s Mr. Logan away to see the new twins east at Arkless,” and Grant saw a rather heavy figure appear on the high road on the Garnie side of the manse and proceed upriver at a businesslike pace.
“I thought that road led only over the hill to Garnie,” Grant said.
“Oh yes, the high road. But where the high road begins to go up the hill there’s a track goes off along the river to the crofts you can see from the ro’d. That’s where he’s going evernow, Mr. Logan. And that’s why he’s walking. He’s not very fond of walking.”
The constable
