Such instructions mystified me. But I had not long to wait for the return of the man who called himself Smith, for he arrived just as it was growing dusk.
After dinner I was seated in front of the blazing fire in my room, smoking and reading the Courier, when I heard a man in heavy boots pass my door, and recognised his low, hacking cough as that of the occupant of No. 11.
I opened the door, and peering forth saw that he was dressed in his loose mackintosh and cap and carried a stout stick. He was going forth for a night walk!
Therefore I slipped on my thick boots and coat and followed. He had turned to the right on leaving the hotel, but in the silence of the night it was difficult, nay, almost impossible, to watch his movements unobserved.
For about two miles I went forward, following the sound of his footsteps in the dark night in the direction of Dava Moor, until we entered the forest of Glaschoile, where the footsteps suddenly ceased.
I halted to listen. There was a dead silence. The man had realised that he was being followed, and had plunged into the forest.
So, disappointed, I was compelled to retrace my steps to the hotel.
I tried to telephone to Ray, but was told that late the previous night he had gone out on the car and had not returned.
Therefore I remained there, impatient and helpless, the mysterious Smith being still absent.
At three o'clock that afternoon the car pulled up before the door and Ray descended.