As he spoke, an idea—several ideas—flashed on Merton. He wished that he had held his peace. He put the little shreds into his pocket-book, rose, and donned his greatcoat. ‘How cold it is!’ he said.
‘Logan, would you mind very much if I said no more just now about the feathers? I really have a notion—which may be a good one, or may be a silly one—and, absurd as it appears, you will seriously oblige me by letting me keep my own counsel.’
‘It is damned awkward,’ said Logan testily.
‘Ah, old boy, but remember that “damned awkward” is a damned awkward expression.’
‘You are right,’ said Logan heartily; ‘but I rose very early, I’m very tired, I’m rather savage. Let’s go in and dine.’
‘All right,’ said Merton.
‘I don’t think,’ said Logan, as they were entering the house, ‘that I need keep these miners on sentry go any longer. The bird—the body, I mean—has flown. Whoever the fellows were that made these tracks, and however they got into and out of the house, they have carried the body away. I’ll pay the watchers and dismiss them.’
‘All right,’ said Merton. ‘I won’t dress. I must return to town by the night train. No time to be lost.’
‘No train to be caught,’ said Logan, ‘unless you drive or walk to Berwick from here—which you can’t. You can’t walk to Dunbar, to catch the 10.20, and I have nothing that you can drive.’
‘Can I send a telegram to town?’