“Garnesk,” interposed the General, consulting a note Dr. Whitehouse had left—“Herbert Garnesk.”
“Well, I want you to try and get him sufficiently interested to come here—and stop here—until he has come to some decision, no matter what it is.”
“A thundering good idea, Ronald,” agreed the old man. “But we can’t tell him this extraordinary story in writing.”
“I’ll go and find him, and fetch him back with me, if I have to hold a gun to his head.”
Accordingly I dashed off to Mallaig again, and caught the evening train to Glasgow. I spent an unhappy night at the Central Station Hotel—though it was certainly not the fault of the hotel—and looked up Mr. Garnesk as early in the morning as I dared disturb a celebrated consultant oculist. I took a fancy to the man at once. He was young—in the early ’forties—very alert-looking, and exceedingly businesslike. His prematurely grey hair gave an added air of importance to the clever eye and clean-cut features, and he had a charm of manner which would have made his fortune had he been almost ignorant of the rudiments of his calling.
“So that’s the complete story of Miss McLeod and her dog Sholto,” he mused, when I had finished speaking. For a brief second I thought he was about to laugh at the apparent absurdity of the yarn, but before I had time to answer he spoke again.
“Miss McLeod and her dog are apparently blind, and Mr. Ewart is a bundle of nerves—and this is very excellent brandy, Mr. Ewart. Allow me.”
I accepted the proffered glass with a laugh, in spite of myself.