‘All right,’ replied Merton. ‘Now do, pray, try to get a good night of sleep.’
Mr. Macrae smiled wanly: ‘I mean to force myself to read Emma, by Miss Austen, till the desired effect is produced.’
Merton went to bed, marvelling at the self-command of the millionaire. He himself slept ill, absorbed in regret and darkling conjecture.
After writing out several telegrams for Merton to carry, the smitten victim of enormous opulence sought repose. But how vainly! Between him and the pages which report the prosings of Miss Bates and
Mr. Woodhouse intruded visions of his daughter, a captive, perhaps crossing the Atlantic, perhaps hidden, who knew, in a shieling or a cavern in the untrodden wastes of Assynt or of Lord Reay’s country. At last these appearances were merged in sleep.
III. Logan to the Rescue!
As Merton sped on the motor next day to the nearest telegraph station, with Mr. Macrae’s sheaf of despatches, Dr. MacTavish found him a very dull companion. He named the lochs and hills, Quinag, Suilvean, Ben Mór, he dwelt on the merits of the trout in the lochs; he showed the melancholy improvements of the old Duke; he spoke of duchesses and of crofters, of anglers and tourists; he pointed to the ruined castle of the man who sold the great Montrose—or did not sell him. Merton was irresponsive, trying to think. What was this mystery? Why did the wireless machine bring no response from its headquarters; or how could practical jokers have intruded into the secret chambers of Messrs. Gianesi and Giambresi? These dreams or visions of his own on the night before Miss Macrae was taken—were they wholly due to tobacco and the liver?
‘I thought I was awake,’ said Merton to himself, ‘when I was only dreaming about the crimson blot on the ceiling. Was I asleep when I saw the tartans go down the stairs? I used to walk in my sleep as a boy. It is very queer!’
‘Frae the top o’ Ben Mór,’ the doctor was saying,
‘on a fine day, they tell me, with a glass you can pick up “The Seven Hunters.”’