certainly true. He is losing all his shyness. And Aunt Hatty is so good for him. I believe that, if this crisis goes on much longer, he’ll propose to her.”
“To-morrow night,” said Jaikie, “will put the finishing touch to Mr Craw. If he confronts the Evallonians in his own house and packs them off with a cursing, he’ll have henceforth the heart of an African lion.”
“He’ll need it,” said Dougal solemnly. “I tell you we’re up against something pretty big… I have the advantage of knowing a little about the gentry down at Portaway. My politics have taken me into some queer places, and I’ve picked up news that never gets into the Press… First of all, Craw is right to some extent about the Evallonian Republic. It’s not what the newspapers make out. There’s a queer gang behind the scenes—a good deal of graft, a fair amount of crime, and a lump of Communism of rather a dirty colour… And these people at the Hydropathic are some of the worst of them. They gave you false names last night, but Casimir, so Miss Westwater tells me, recognised them from your description, and he gave them their right names. I know something about Rosenbaum and Dedekind and Ricci, and I know a whole lot about Mastrovin. They’re desperate folk, and they know that their power is on a razor edge, so they won’t stick at trifles… You may be right. They may only want to find the Monarchists in a thoroughly compromising position and publish it to the world… On the other hand, they may have a darker purpose. Or perhaps they have two purposes, and if one fails they will try the other. It would suit their book to make Casimir and Craw the laughing-stock of Europe, but it would suit their book even better to have done with Casimir and Co. altogether—and especially with Prince John… To remove them quietly somewhere where they would be out of action … For I haven’t a doubt that Casimir is right, and that any moment Evallonia may kick the Republicans over the border.”
“I thought of that,” said Jaikie. “They have a yacht waiting at Fallatown.”
Dougal listened with wide eyes to this fresh piece of news.
“To-morrow night,” he said solemnly, “there’s going to be some sort of a battle. And we must prepare every detail as carefully as if it were a real battle. Man, Jaikie!” and he beat his companion’s back, “isn’t this like old times?”
“How marvellous!” Alison cried, and the dusk did not conceal the glow in her eyes. “I’m going to be in it. Do you think I am going to that silly ball? Not I!”
“You will certainly be in it,” Jaikie told her. “You and I are going to have the busiest evening of our lives.”
CHAPTER 18
SOLWAY SANDS
This simple tale, which has been compelled to linger in too many sordid by-paths, is to have at last one hour of the idyllic. But an idyll demands a discerning mind, a mind which can savour that quality which we call idyllic, which can realise that Heaven has for a moment brought spirit and matter into exquisite unison. “We receive but what we give,” says the poet, “and in our life alone doth Nature live.” Such a mind was Mr McCunn’s, such a maker of idylls was the laird of Blaweary. He alone of men perceived the romance into which he had stumbled, and by perceiving created it. Cogitavit, ergo fuit.
Prince John did not go to bed on Thursday afternoon as Jaikie had advised. On the contrary he played bridge after dinner till close on midnight, and was with difficulty restrained from convoying Robin Charvill on his road to Castle Gay. But next morning he stayed in bed. It was a mild bright day of late autumn; the pheasants were shouting in the woods; the roads were alive with voters hastening to Portaway; Charvill was to be observed, by those who were meant to observe him, sitting on a seat on the Castle terrace in the royal white waterproof: and in the midst of that pleasant bustle of life Prince John was kept firmly between the sheets at the Mains, smoking many cigarettes and reading a detective novel provided by Alison. The cause of this docility was Dickson, who came over after breakfast and took up position in the sitting-room adjoining the royal bed-chamber. It was his duty to see the Prince out of the country, and he was undertaking it in a business spirit.
Jaikie, his headquarters the Green Tree, spent a busy morning over transport. Wilkie, the mechanic at the Hydropathic, was his chief instrument, and he was also his intelligence officer. He brought news of the Evallonians. Allins had been having a good many conferences in the town, he reported, chiefly in a low class of public house. He had also hired two cars for the evening—the cars only, for his party preferred to find the drivers. “He’s got the Station Hotel Daimler,” said Wilkie, “and young Macvittie’s Bentley. They’ll be for a long run, nae doot. Maybe they’re leaving the place, for Tam Grierson tells me they’ve got a’ their bags packed and have settled their bills… I’ve got our Rolls for you. Ay, and I’ve got my orders clear in my mind. I bring the Mains folk down to the Ball, and syne I’m at the hotel at ten-thirty to take the young gentleman doun to Rinks, and back again to take the leddies home… ‘Deed, yes. I’ll haud my tongue, and ye can see for yersel’ I’m speirin’ nae questions. For this day and this nicht I’m J. Galt’s man and naebody else’s.” He laid a confidential and reassuring finger against his nose.
The one incident of note on that day was Jaikie’s meeting with Tibbets. He ran against him in the Eastgate, and, on a sudden inspiration, invited him to the Green Tree and stood him luncheon—Mrs Fairweather’s plain cooking, far better than the pretentious fare of the Station Hotel.
“Mr Tibbets,” he said solemnly, when his guest had stayed his hunger, “you’re proud of your profession, aren’t you?”
“You may say so,” was the answer.
“And you’re jealous of its honour? I mean that, while you are always trying to get the better of other papers, yet if any attack is made on the Press as a whole, you all stand together like a stone wall.”
“That’s so. We’re very proud of our solidarity. You get a Government proposing a dirty deal, and we’d smash them in twenty-four hours.”
“I thought so. You’re the most powerful trade-union on earth.”
“Just about it.”
“Then, listen to me. I’m going to confess something. That walking-tour we told you about was all moonshine. Dougal—he’s my friend—is a journalist on one of the Craw papers, and he’s been at Castle Gay for the last week. I’m not a journalist, but there was rather a mix-up and I had to lend a hand… You scored heavily over your interview with Craw.”
“My biggest scoop so far,” said Tibbets modestly.
“Well, it was all bogus, you know. You never saw Craw. You saw another man, a friend of mine, who happened to be staying at the Castle. He didn’t know he was being interviewed, so he talked freely… You had a big success, because your readers thought Mr Craw was recanting his opinions, and you emphasised it very respectfully in no less than three leaders… Naturally, Craw’s pretty sore.”
Tibbets’s jaw had fallen and consternation looked out of his eyes.
“He can’t repudiate it,” he stammered.
“Oh yes, he can. He wasn’t in the house at the moment. He’s there now, but he wasn’t last Sunday.”
“Where was he?”
“He was with me,” said Jaikie. “Don’t make
