‘Got you now, Mr. Blake!’ said Logan, turning the head to the light. ‘D---n!’ he added; ‘it is Gianesi! I thought we had the Irish minstrel.’
The figure only snarled, and swore in Italian.
‘First thing, anyhow, to tie him up,’ said Logan, producing a serviceable cord.
Both Logan and Merton were muscular men, and
presently had the intruder tightly swathed in inextricable knots and gagged in a homely but sufficient fashion.
‘Now, Merton,’ said Logan, ‘this is a bitter disappointment! From your dream, or vision, of Eachain of the Hairy Arm, it was clear to me that somebody, the poet for choice, had heard the yarn of the Highland ghost, and was masquerading in the kilt for the purpose of tampering with the electric dodge and communicating with the kidnappers. Apparently I owe the bard an apology. You’ll sit on this fellow’s chest while I go and bring Mr. Macrae.’
‘A message has come in on the machine,’ said Merton.
‘Well, he can read it; it is not our affair.’
Logan went off; Merton poured out a glass of Apollinaris water, added a little whisky, and lit a cigarette. The figure on the floor wriggled; Merton put the revolver which the man had dropped and Logan’s pistol into a drawer of the writing-table, which he locked.
‘I do detest all that cheap revolver business,’ said Merton.