For answer, my old friend only raised his glass in welcome and laughed across it merrily.
About thirty-eight, tall and dark, with a distinctly military bearing, and dressed in a smart tweed and gaiters, he looked the very pink of condition. Living that healthy, open-air life on the Scotch estate had tanned his face and neck, and had brought him to a perfection of “fitness” seldom seen in a man. His vitality was marvellous. From the moment he came down in the morning to open the letter-bag until the small hours when the last billiard players drained their final “pegs,” he was constantly active. He loved the country, he loved Scotland, he loved shooting, of which he had plenty, and above all loved the companionship of the few men who were his intimate friends—the men who now formed the house party.
Connie Fenwicke was just as happy, just as fond of country life, and just as generous in her hospitality as her husband. Wife and husband thoroughly understood each other, and such was their independent position that, when tired of life at Crailloch, they took a voyage to Australia, where Fred Fenwicke was interested in certain companies. Though fond of Scotland, and living there even through the town season, they were nevertheless essentially cosmopolitan, well-known in Monte Carlo, in Florence, and in Rome. More, indeed, need not be said save that they were a pair such as one seldom met, whose house was hospitality itself.
Walter was not so intimate a friend as myself; but before that night was out Fred Fenwicke had admitted him to that charmed circle of close acquaintances, and he declared himself absolutely at home.
Dinner was always the solemn function at Crailloch, as it is in most country houses, for the shooters were then clean, the ladies in pretty frocks, and amusing, and Fred’s chef was acknowledged to be one of the best in Scotland. After the ladies had left the table and coffee had been served in the big, old dining-room, with its splendid family portraits, I took Fred aside, for I had detected in him an anxiety to know the reason I had so suddenly come up to visit him. He knew that it was not on account of sport, for near-sightedness prevented my shooting, and I had heard him pass a remark sotto voce at table with Sammy Waldron that it must be on account of some love affair.
In order to set my old friend’s mind at rest I took him along to his study, the only sanctum private from guests, and told him that the reason of the suddenness of my visit was because I wanted to study on the spot the history of Threave Castle.
“Oh! that’s it!” he cried, removing his cigar from his lips. “Well, I suppose you’ve got some book or other in view, eh?”
“H’m, yes,” I answered after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m studying the history of the place. Perhaps I may write a book about it. I want you to help me. Have you any books dealing with the subject?”
“I fear I haven’t,” was his response. “Threave is about fourteen miles from here, on a solitary and un-get-at-able island in the Dee. I’ve never been there myself; but I know a man, Mr Batten, the archaeologist, who lives in Castle-Douglas, who has the finest collection of works dealing with Galloway and the neighbourhood, and who has written a book regarding those parts. I’ll write to him. He’ll lend you a lot of books, no doubt, and perhaps he’ll go over to Threave with you. He’s an excellent fellow, and a great friend of mine. But,” he added, “Walter is helping you, I suppose?”
“Yes. We are making certain investigations,” was my cautious reply. “At present we can’t say anything definite, except that I may possibly lay the scene of my new book there.”