‘Dr. MacTavish,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘speaking as Highlander to Highlander, these are circumstances, are they not, under the seal of professional confidence?’
The big doctor rose to his feet.
‘They are, sir, but, Mr. Macrae, I am a married man. This sad business of yours, I say it with sorrow, will be the talk of the world to-morrow, as it is of the country side to-day. If you will excuse me, I would rather know nothing, and be able to tell nothing, so I’ll take my pipe outside with me.’
‘Not alone, don’t go alone, Dr. MacTavish,’ said Merton; ‘Mr. Macrae will need his telegraphic operator
probably. Let me play you a hundred up at billiards.’
The doctor liked nothing better; soon the balls were rattling, while the millionaire was closeted alone with Donald Macdonald and the wireless thing.
After one game, of which he was the winner, the doctor, with much delicacy, asked leave to go to bed. Merton conducted him to his room, and, returning, was hailed by Mr. Macrae.
‘Here is the pleasant result of our communications,’ he said, reading aloud the message which he had first received.
‘The Seven Hunters. August 9, 7.47 p.m.
‘Do not be anxious about Miss Macrae. She is in perfect health, and accompanied by three chaperons accustomed to move in the first circles. The one question is How Much? Sorry to be abrupt, but the sooner the affair is satisfactorily concluded the better. A reply through your Gianesi machine will reach us, and will meet with prompt attention.’
‘A practical joke,’ said Merton. ‘The melancholy news has reached town through Bude’s telegrams, and somebody at the depôt is playing tricks with the instrument.’