“Well, I’ll assist you, Allan, old chap, if you’ll promise to be silent upon Crailloch and all the boys here.” And he laughed merrily. “When I told them you were coming they all wanted to know if you were going to write a book. They haven’t forgotten those articles last season about Nice and Monte.”
“I’ll let them down lightly, I promise you,” was my reply. “Only I tell you my object in confidence. I don’t wish the whole crowd to know.”
“Of course not, my dear fellow,” he responded. “I’ll help you. I’ll write to Batten, and we’ll arrange a little picnic over to Threave. You needn’t tell anyone your real reason for going there.”
And so I left the arrangements in his hands. After three days of merriment and nights of music, billiard playing, and practical joking, Fred received a note from Mr Batten saying that he had obtained permission from the laird for us to visit Threave, and that he would be pleased not only to accompany us, but also to lend me the several rare and out-of-print works in his collection that dealt with the history of the famous stronghold.
To us this was good news indeed, and two mornings later, in a party of ten, including several others on cycles, we drove in a pair-horse brake away along the bank of Loch Ken, through the long, whitewashed villages of Parton and Crossmichael, down to a spot beside the winding Dee, where at a lonely farmhouse we were met by Mr Batten, who proved a most affable and valuable guide.
The party was an extremely merry one, and being compelled to leave the brake some half-mile from the river, each of us carried part of the provisions off which we were to lunch on arrival on the island.
The day was superb for August, one of those brilliant mornings seldom experienced in Scotland so late in the season, and much good-humoured banter was exchanged as the whole party trudged through the wide fields of corn just falling to the sickle.
Presently, on coming up the brae-face, we suddenly obtained a view of the broad, winding river sparkling in the sunshine below; and beyond, upon its solitary island, given over to the rooks and waterfowl, rose the stern, grim keep of what was once the home of the Black Douglas, which even today stands out grey and forbidding in the autumn sunlight.
Wyman was walking beside me, carrying a basketful of bottles of soda water, and as the view burst upon me I turned to him and said:
“Can it be possible that the casket of which old Godfrey speaks is hidden upon that island?”