Renstoke Castle was a wonderful old house in Argyllshire, and James Mitchell, now Lord Renstoke, was surely one of the favoured of the gods! Over six feet in height, strikingly handsome and of superb physique, wealthy and with great charm of manner, there seemed to be nothing to which he could not aspire. Despite the surroundings of his early years he had been well educated for his father, though only a Canadian farmer, had been a man of considerable culture and learning, and had seen that his son, who inherited his own intellectual gifts, had been well taught. Only the spirit of adventure had led him at twenty-one into the wild places of the world, where he saw existence from many angles, and in a rough outdoor life had brought to perfection physical powers which had been remarkable even in boyhood.
He was now the last of the Renstokes. But he was still young. No one dreamed but that he would marry and that the ancient line would be continued.
Then the blow fell!
Through the late summer a series of mysterious attacks had been made on live stock throughout the western portion of Argyllshire. Sheep, and even deer, had been attacked, evidently by some unusually powerful animal.
Sheep worrying, of course, is not an uncommon vice among dogs, and when the outbreak first started little was thought of the matter. The local farmers and shepherds merely began to watch their dogs more closely than usual. But the outbreaks continued, more and more sheep were killed, and at length the losses became so heavy that drastic steps were taken.
For thirty miles around, not a dog was permitted off the chain after dusk. Bands of men armed with guns, with instructions to shoot any dog on sight, patrolled the country-side by day and night. It was all in vain. Sheep continued to perish under the teeth of the mysterious prowler, and even the smaller deer, in spite of their speed, began to fall victims.
The farmers were at their wits’ ends when the mystery was suddenly lifted into the region of unadulterated horror.
Alan MacPherson, a young gamekeeper, had been one of a number of men who, stretched out into a line a couple of miles long, had set out at nightfall to search a lonely piece of moorland in which it was thought the strange animal might be hiding. The line of men had gone forward on a prearranged plan for five or six miles and then “pivoted” on the right hand man, swung round and marched homeward, concentrating finally at a big farm known as Kelsie, where the losses had been very serious.
The men, of course, knew the country thoroughly, and similar manoeuvres had been many times repeated without mishap. Always the last man of the line had turned up within a few minutes of the prearranged time.
On this occasion MacPherson was on the extreme left wheel and, having farthest to go, should have been the last man home. No one was uneasy when it was found he was a few minutes late; he was armed and knew the country like the palm of his hand.