d.i.c.k made some coffee and when it was on the table Whitney was glad to lean back on a locker and light his pipe. With two candle lamps burning, the narrow cabin looked very snug and cheerful after the desolate sands, and it was something to see Andrew sitting opposite, safe but thoughtful.

"Did you trim the lamp properly?" d.i.c.k asked, puzzled.

"Of course," said Andrew, with a touch of dryness. "That's something I don't often neglect. Mixed the oil myself--colza and a dash of paraffin; and the lamp's the best I could get in Glasgow. Suppose you bring it down."

d.i.c.k did so, and Andrew took off the oil-container, which was nearly full, and examined the burner. There was nothing wrong, and Whitney noted the good workmanship of the fittings.

"It couldn't go out," he said decidedly.

"That," Andrew replied, frowning, "is my opinion; but as I came down to the gutter I saw only two rows of footsteps, and you made those in coming and going back to the dinghy. I can't say there wasn't another track, because the light was faint so far from the boat; but we might look about the deck and cabin-top to see if anybody has been on board."

"I'm afraid I mussed that all up with sand," Whitney pointed out.

"But who'd want to come on board?" d.i.c.k asked. "Theft could be the only object, and we'll soon find out about that."

They looked round the cabin, but missed nothing.

"A thief wouldn't have put out the light, because he'd know that might bring us back before he got away," d.i.c.k elucidated; then turned to Whitney. "What do you think?"

"Well," said Whitney, smiling. "I've only one suggestion and it's rather far-fetched. The thing might have been a plot to make us lose the boat or, perhaps, make an end of us. If that's so, it nearly succeeded."

"Rot!" exclaimed Andrew. "n.o.body would be twopence the richer for putting me out of the way."

"And I haven't an enemy in the world--unless it's myself," d.i.c.k grinned. "I don't count the Kaiser, because the bad feeling's patriotic; I've nothing personal against him."

Andrew made a sign of impatience, and Whitney, watching him closely, thought he felt disturbed.

"Did you see anybody on the bank?"

"No," Whitney answered. "I saw a small sail; a lugsail, I think, because it was long on the head. It looked very black."

"Tanned with blacklead and oil; one of the Annan whammel boats, most likely. They drag a net for salmon, but wouldn't get any just now, as the water's too smooth."

"Then why were they out?"

"After flounders, perhaps. But none of the Annan men would meddle with our light. However, we'd better make a start if we mean to reach Rough Firth this tide."

"Now and then I'm glad I'm not much of a seaman," d.i.c.k laughed. "As I'd probably pull the wrong string, I'll stay below and smoke."

A cold east wind was blowing when Whitney went on deck, and after hoisting sail they crept away against the tide. Whitney sounded with the pole until he could no longer touch bottom, when Andrew seemed satisfied. It was very dark, but two quivering beams pierced the gloom.

"Get the topsail down," Andrew ordered after a while. "We'll find the stream that fills Rough Firth in a few minutes and it will take us up fast enough."

This proved correct, for shortly afterward the sea broke about them in confused eddies, and the boat splashed and lurched as she crossed the troubled s.p.a.ce that divided the tides. Then she forged ahead very fast, and blurred hills and shadowy cliffs soon loomed out. Whitney used the sounding pole again, the cliffs grew plainer, and when the land closed in on them, they dropped anchor. She brought up and, after helping to stow the canvas, Whitney climbed into his folding cot.

For a time he did not sleep but lay thinking about the extinguished light. It seemed impossible that the lamp should have gone out accidentally, and he was not satisfied that the explanation he had humorously offered was altogether absurd. His friends had had another narrow escape not long before, and it might be significant that although they were together on both occasions, Andrew had run the greater risk. Whitney admitted that this might be coincidence and he must not let his imagination run away with him. One must use sense and not wrap up in romantic mystery a matter that might be perfectly simple. For all that, he meant to seize any clue that chance might offer him.

Next morning they landed and joined Murray at a village among the hills. They spent the day upon the heather, working inland across broad, gra.s.sy s.p.a.ces and red moors where the sheep fled before them, and then climbed a line of rugged hills. These were not high, but Whitney found them romantically interesting as he scrambled among black peat-hags where the wild cotton grew, up marshy ravines, and past great granite boulders. Stopping now and then to get his breath, he watched the line of small figures stretched out across the waste and thought that n.o.body lurking among the stones and heather could escape. Still, when the different detachments met upon a windy summit, none of them had seen anything suspicious.

"We've drawn blank," Murray remarked, as they ate some sandwiches behind a boulder.

"Yes," said Andrew. "If there is anything to be found out, I'd locate it farther east."

Murray looked at him keenly for a moment and then answered:

"On the whole, I agree with you. It's my business, however, to search where I am told."

They went downhill soon afterward, and the next day the _Rowan_ sailed west along the coast, carrying d.i.c.k, who had reluctantly consented to go with the others.

CHAPTER X

THE YOUNG OFFICER

It was a fine afternoon when the train ran down from the granite wilds round Cairnsmuir into a broad green valley. Behind, the red heath, strewn with boulders and scarred by watercourses, rolled upward into gathering clouds; in front, yellow stubble fields and smooth meadows lay shining in the light, with a river flashing through their midst.

Whitney, watching the scene from a window, thought the change was typical of southern Scotland, which he had found a land of contrasts.

They had left the _Rowan_ where the river mouth opened into a sheltered, hill-girt bay, and walked up a dale that was steeped in quiet pastoral beauty. It led them to a wind-swept tableland, in which lonely, ruffled lakes lay among the stones, and granite outcrops ribbed the desolate heath. There they had caught the train; and now it was running down to well-tilled levels, dotted with trim white houses and marked in the distance by the blue smoke of a town. Andrew had chosen the route to show Whitney the country, and he admitted that it had its charm.

The train slowed down as it approached a station, and when it stopped d.i.c.k jumped up.

"I may be able to get a paper here," he said, and leaped down on to the station platform, where shepherds with rough collies, cattle-dealers, and quarrymen stood waiting.

d.i.c.k vanished among the crowd; but a few moments later he returned hurriedly, without his paper.

"I nearly ran into old Mackellar!" he exclaimed with a chuckle. "But I dodged him!"

"Who is Mackellar?" Whitney asked. "One of your creditors?"

"Worse than that. One of my trustees. I thought I'd better not meet him; he might have felt embarra.s.sed after what he said to me not long ago."

Alighting at the next station, they walked downhill to the narrow town beside the Cree, and here they arranged to be driven up the waterside to the shooting lodge where Whitney's mother was staying. After standing on the bridge a while they went to the little inn. It was now getting late in the afternoon, the hillside above the town shut out the light, and the room they entered was rather dim. d.i.c.k stopped just inside the door.

"Mackellar!" he exclaimed; and turned to be off.

"d.i.c.k! Ye're not going before ye speak to me?"

"I want to show my friend the town," he explained with a laugh, but he came forward and shook hands and presented Whitney.

Mackellar was about fifty years of age, strongly built, and dressed in quiet taste. He had a shrewd, thoughtful face, with a hint of command in it, and there was a touch of formality in his manner, but Whitney liked his faint, twinkling smile.

"Weel," said the Scot, after they had talked a while, "ye may take your friend out to see the town now, d.i.c.k; but, with Mr. Whitney's leave, I'll keep your cousin here until ye come back."

Whitney felt amused as he saw that d.i.c.k had failed in his rather obvious intention of preventing the others from enjoying a private talk.