Mr. Williams asked if he might see Mr. Blake; he
could impart religious consolation. Merton carried this message, in answer to which Blake, who was in bed very sulky and sleepy, merely replied, ‘Kick out the hell-hound.’
Merton was obliged to soften this rude message, saying that unfortunately Mr. Blake was of the older faith, though he had expressed no wish for the ministrations of Father McColl.
On hearing this Mr. Williams merely sighed, as the Budes were present. He had been informed as to their tenets, and had even expressed a desire to labour for their enlightenment, by way of giving local colour. He had, he said, some stirring Protestant tracts among his clerical properties. Mr. Macrae, however, had gently curbed this zeal, so on hearing of Blake’s religious beliefs the sigh of Mr. Williams was delicately subdued.
Dinner-time arrived. Blake did not appear; the butler said that he supported existence solely on dried toast and milk and soda-water. He was one of the people who keep a private clinical thermometer, and he sent the bulletin that his temperature was 103. He hoped to come downstairs to-morrow. Mr. Williams gave the party some news of the outer world. He had brought the Scotsman, and Mr. Macrae had the gloomy satisfaction of reading a wildly inaccurate report of his misfortune. Correct news had not reached the press, but deep sympathy was expressed. The melancholy party soon broke up, Mr. Williams conducting family prayers with much unction, after the Budes had withdrawn.
In a private interview with the millionaire Merton
told him how he had discovered the real meaning of ‘The Seven Hunters,’ whence the first telegram of the kidnappers was dated. Neither man thought the circumstance very important.
‘They would hardly have ventured to name the islands if they had any idea of staying there,’ the millionaire said, ‘besides any heartless jester could find the name on a map.’
This was obvious, but as Lady Bude was much to be pitied, alone, in the circumstances, Mr. Macrae determined to send her and Bude on the yacht, the Flora Macdonald, to cruise round the Butt of Lewis and examine the islets. Both Bude and his wife were devoted to yachting, and the isles might yield something in the way of natural history.
Next day (Wednesday) the Budes steamed away, and there came many answers to the telegrams of Mr. Macrae, and one from Logan to Merton. Logan was hard by, cruising with his cousin, Admiral Chirnside, at the naval manœuvres on the northeast coast. He would come to Inchnadampf at once. Mr. Macrae heard from Gianesi and Giambresi. Gianesi himself was coming with a fresh machine. Mr. Macrae wished it had been Giambresi, whom he knew; Gianesi he had never met. Condolences, of course, poured in from all quarters, even the most exalted. The Emperor of Germany was most sympathetic. But there was no news of importance. Several yachting parties had been suspected and examined; three young ladies at Oban, Applecross, and Tobermory, had established their identity and proved that they were not Miss Macrae.