The Mystery of the Green Ray

by William Le Queux

  CHAPTER II.

  THE MAN GOING NORTH.

  We "made" Richmond about half-past eleven, and completed the necessaryarrangements for the housing of the boats and the disposal of oursuperfluous fodder, as Jack called it, for by this time we had allmade up our minds that the war was inevitable.

  The bustle of mobilisation had already taken possession of thestreets, and as we stepped out of Charing Cross Station we stumbledinto a crowd of English Bluejackets and Tommies and French reservistsin Villiers Street. We parted for the afternoon, each to attend to hisprivate affairs, and arranged to meet again at the Grand Hotel GrillRoom for an early dinner, as I had to catch the 7.55 from King'sCross.

  I dashed out to Hampstead to my flat, and packed the necessary wearingapparel, taking care to include my fly-book and my favouritesplit-cane trout rod in my kit. I should only be in Scotland for acouple of days, but I knew that I should be fishing with Myra at leastone of them, and no borrowed rod is a patch on one's own triedfavourite. I snatched an half-hour or so to write to the few relativesI have and tell them that I was joining the army after a hurried visitto Scotland to say good-bye to Myra. And then I got my kit to Dennis'srooms in Panton Street, Haymarket, just in time to have a chat withhim before we joined the others at the Grand Hotel. I found himhopefully getting things ready for a long absence, sorting outunanswered letters, putting away papers, etc. On the table was an opencopy of a stores catalogue. He had been trying to find suitablepresents for his two small step-sisters. Dennis invariably thought ofhimself last of all, and then usually at someone else's request.

  "Well, old man," I asked, "how do you feel about it now?"

  "Rotten, Ronnie," he replied, with a rueful smile. "I've been on the'phone to my silly doctor chap, and he shouted with laughter at me.Still, I shall have a jolly good shot at it as soon as the thing isdefinite."

  "I only pray to heaven," I said seriously, "that no slipshod fool of adoctor lets you through."

  "They won't let me in, old chap; no such luck. It's a ghastly outlook.What on earth am I to do with myself while the war lasts?"

  "My dear chap," I exclaimed, "it won't be as bad as all that. Therewill be thousands of men who won't go to the war. I shan't besurprised if you see very little difference about town even when thewar's in full swing. You can't go, although you want to, and it'sjolly bad luck, old man. Don't think I don't understand, but, believeme, you won't be the only man left in London by a million or two."

  "I know," he said penitently, "I'm grousing and worrying you. Sorry!But I can see you setting out for the Temple in the morning andleaving your house on fire. It wouldn't make it easier simply becauseyou knew you weren't able to do anything to put out the fire. In fact,it would make it a jolly lot worse. Still, we'll cut that and changethe subject. When you get back from Invermalluch give me a look up. Iexpect I shall be here. And, of course, give my kindest regards toMiss McLeod--oh, and the General," he added, as an afterthought.

  "I will, indeed," I promised readily, "and I'll wire you the train I'mcoming back by. I should like you to meet it, and we can spend the fewremaining days I have together. If you don't get past the doctor Ishould like you to keep your eye on one or two things for me while I'maway."

  "Of course, anything you like. The more the merrier," he answeredreadily; and the poor fellow brightened visibly at the thought ofbeing able to do something for a pal.

  We taxied round the corner with my kit, and joined the others at thegrill room. They were both in the highest of spirits, Jack, of course,in particular. He had been told that his intimate knowledge of motorsand motor-cycles would be of great advantage to him, and he had beenadvised on all hands to join as a despatch-rider. In imagination healready saw himself up to the most weird pranks on his machine, manyof which, much to the gratification of his friends, and just as muchto his own astonishment, were proved later to have a solid foundationin fact. Over dinner we discussed the question of applying forcommissions.

  "Oh, dash it, no," said Jack; "I'm going to Berlin on the oldsnorter."

  "Commissions are off--quite out of the question," Tommy agreed withemphasis. "To begin with, it means waiting, which is absurd; and inthe second place I object to any attempt to travel first-class. It'ssilly and snobbish, to put the kindest construction on it. If I've gotto join this excursion I'm willing to go where they like to put me,and if necessary I'll hang on behind."

  I record this remark because it was the last that I ever heard poorTommy Evans make in this connection; and I think the reader will agreeit was just what one would have expected of him.

  We said good-bye after dinner. They all wanted to come to the stationto see me off, but I was anxious to be alone with Dennis.

  The others in any case had plenty to do, and I could scarcely let themsacrifice their "last few hours of liberty" to come and see me off. Irather expected that the excitement of the war would have prevented alot of people travelling, but the reverse was the case. There seemedto be more people than ever on the platform, and I could not get acorner seat even in the Fort William coach. I bundled my things intoa carriage and took up as much room as I could, and then Dennis and Istrolled about the platform until the train was due to start.

  "Strange mixtures of humanity you see on a railway platform," Dennisremarked presently.

  "Very," I agreed. "I daresay there are some very curious professionsrepresented here."

  "This chap, for instance," said Dennis, indicating a youth in a tweedjacket and flannel trousers. "He might be anything from an M.P.'sprivate secretary to an artist's model, for all we know. I should sayhe's a journalist; he knows his way through a crowd as onlyjournalists do."

  "A typical Yorkshire cattle-dealer in his Sunday best," I suggested,as we passed another passenger. And so we went the length of theplatform making rough guesses as to the professions of my fellowtravellers. Suddenly I noticed a tall man, wearing a tweed cap and along covert-coat, his hands in his pockets, a stumpy cigar stuck inthe corner of his mouth. His hair was gray, and his face bore signs ofa tough struggle in early youth. His complexion was of that curiousgray-yellow one sees frequently in America and occasionally inDenmark--something quite distinct from the bronze-gray of manycolonials. I nudged Dennis.

  "What did you make of that?" I asked him after we had passed.

  "I should be much more interested to know what 'that' made of us," hereplied.

  "Nothing, I should think," I answered carelessly. "Why, the man's eyeswere nearly closed, he was half asleep. I bet he hasn't taken theslightest notice of anyone for the past ten minutes. You could commita murder under his nose and he wouldn't see it."

  "I think not," said Dennis quietly. "I fancy that if you took out acigarette-case as you passed him he would be able to tell youafterwards how many cigarettes you had left in the case, what brandthey were, and what the monogram on the front was. If you've anymurders to commit, Ronnie, I should be careful to see that ourAmerican friend is some thousands of miles away."

  "Good heavens, you old sleuth!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "I neversaw a more innocent-looking man in my life."

  "I hate innocent people," said Dennis emphatically; "they are usuallydangerous, and seldom half as innocent as they look."

  "But what makes you think this man is only pretending to look like adreaming, unobservant idiot, and why do you call him American sodefinitely?"

  "He may or may not be American; but we have to give him a name forpurposes of classification," Dennis explained. "In any case hisovercoat was made in the States; the cut of the lapels is quiteunmistakable. I knew an American who tried everywhere to get a coatcut like that over here, and failed. As to his being observant, youseem to have overlooked one important fact. There the man stands,apparently half asleep. Occasionally he displays a certain amount oflife--tucks his papers more tightly under his arms, and so on. Now,the man who has been dreaming on a station platform and is obviouslygoing by the train would wake up to look at the clock, or glance roundto see how many are travelling, an
d generally take an interest in thebustle of the station. But this man doesn't. Why? Because he onlywakes up when his interest wanders, and that is only when he has seenall he wants to see for the moment. When we pass him the second timehe will probably appear to be more awake, unless there is someone elsepassing him in the other direction, simply because he has seen us andsized us up and dismissed us as of no interest; or, more likely,stowed us away in his capacious memory, and, having no further use forus, he forgets to appear disinterested."

  "Good Lord, Dennis!" I exclaimed, "I'd no idea you ever noticed thingsso keenly. What do you think he is--a detective?"

  "Either that or a criminal. They are the same type of mind. One ispositive and the other negative, that's all. We'll turn back and testhim as we pass him. Talk golf, or fishing, or something."

  So we commenced a half-hearted conversation on trout flies, and as weapproached "the American" I was explaining the deadly nature of theRed Palmer after a spate and the advisability of including Greenwell'sGlory on the same cast. Unfortunately, as we passed our man there werethree other people coming towards us, and he was gazing over the topof the carriage with the same dreaming look that had, according toDennis, deceived me before. But we were hardly abreast of him when hisstick shot up in front of us. His arm never moved at all; it was donewith a quick jerk of the wrist.

  "You've dropped a paper, sir," he said to Dennis, to my utterastonishment, for I had seen no paper dropped. Dennis turned quickly,and picked up a letter which was lying on the platform behind him.

  "I'm very much obliged, sir; thank you," said Dennis, as he put theletter in his pocket.

  "I never saw you drop that," I exclaimed when we were safely out ofearshot. "Did you?"

  "There you are," my friend cried triumphantly. "You were walkingbeside me and you didn't spot it, and he was some distance away and hedid; and you say he was half asleep."

  "I say, Den," I exclaimed, laughing, "d'you think it's going to besafe to travel on this train? I wonder where he's going?"

  Then we dismissed the man from our minds. The train was going in sixminutes, and I joined the crowd round the rug and pillow barrow, andprepared to make myself comfortable. Leaving everything to the lastminute, as most travellers do, we had a hurried stirrup-cup in view ofthe fact that I was about to "gang awa'," and as the train glided outof the station Dennis turned to wire for my breakfast-basket atCrianlarich. The one thing that it is important to do when travellingon the West Highland Railway I had forgotten! We had not passedPotter's Bar before I decided that it would be impossible to sleep, soI ferreted out the attendant and bribed him to put me into afirst-class carriage. Better still, he showed me into a sleeper. I wasdog-tired, and in ten minutes fell fast asleep. I awoke for a momentor two as the train snorted into a station and drew up. I dozed againfor some time, and then the door of my sleeper opened and who shouldlook in but "the American."

  "Say, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed apologetically. "My mistake."

  "Not at all," I replied. "Where are we now?" For the train was stillstanding.

  "Edinburgh," he answered. "Just leaving. Sorry to disturb you."

  I again assured him that there was no harm done, and he turned andleft me, the tassels of his Jaeger dressing-gown trailing after him.Then I fell asleep again, and woke up as we left Whistlefield. I hadfinished my wretched ablutions--for an early morning wash on a trainis always a wretched business--as we reached Crianlarich. I was notlong in claiming my breakfast; and when the passengers in therefreshment-room had finished their coffee--which seems to be the timewhen the train is due to leave, and not _vice-versa_, as might beexpected--the guard was standing on the platform, flag in hand, on thepoint of blowing his whistle. Suddenly the head of the American shotout of the window of his carriage--no other expression describes it.

  "Say, conductor," he exclaimed angrily, "where's my breakfast?"

  Surely Dennis had been right about the nationality.

  "What name might it be, sir?" asked the guard.

  "Hilderman--J. G. Hilderman. Ordered by telegraph."

  "I'll see, sir," said the guard, dashing into the refreshment-room. Itdid not seem to matter when the train started; but, after a furtherheated argument, in which the official refused to wait while a coupleof eggs were being fried, Mr. Hilderman was supplied with a pot ofcoffee, some cold ham, and dried toast, and we recommenced our belatedjourney. I reached Fort William and changed on to the Mallaig train,as did Mr. Hilderman, on whom, after the breakfast episode, I hadbegun to look with an affectionate and admiring regard. The man whocan keep a train waiting in Great Britain while the guard gets him hisbreakfast must be very human after all. Most of the way on thebeautiful journey through Lochaber I leaned with my head out of thewindow, drinking in the gorgeous air and admiring the luxuriousscenery of the mountain side. But, in view of the hilly nature of thetrack and the quality of the coal employed, it is always a dangerousadventure on the West Highland Railway, and presently I found myselfwith a big cinder in my eye. I was trying to remove the cause of mydiscomfort, and at the same time swearing softly, I am afraid, whenHilderman came up.

  "I guess I'm just the man you're looking for," he said. "Show me."

  In less time than it takes to tell the offending cinder was removed,and I was amazed at the delicacy and certainty of his touch. I thankedhim profusely, and indeed I was really grateful to him. Naturallyenough, we fell into conversation--the easy, broad conversation of twomen who have never seen each other before and expect never to see eachother again, but are quite willing to be friends in the meantime.

  "Terrible news, this," he said presently, pulling a copy of the_Glasgow Herald_ from his pocket. "I suppose you got it at FortWilliam?"

  "No," I said. "I didn't leave the train. I wasn't thinking ofnewspapers. What is it?"

  "A state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as fromtwelve o'clock last night."

  "Ah!" said I. "It has come, then." And I was surprised that I hadforgotten all about the war, which was actually the cause of mypresence there. I noticed with some curiosity that Hilderman lookedout of the window with a strangely tense air, his lips firmly pressedtogether, his eyes wide open and staring. He was certainly awake now.But in a moment he turned to me with a charming smile.

  "You know, I'm an American," he said. "But this hits me--hits me hard.There's a calm and peaceful, friendly hospitality about this island ofyours that I like--like a lot. My own country reminds me too much ofmy own struggles for existence. For nearly forty years I fought forbreath in America, and, but that I like now and again to run over andhave a look round, you can keep the place as far as I'm concerned.I've been about here now for a good many years--not just this part,for this is nearly new to me, but about the country--and I feel thatthis is my quarrel, and I should like to have a hand in it."

  "Perhaps America may join in yet," I suggested.

  "Not she," he cried, with a laugh. "America! Not on your life. Why,she's afraid of civil war. She don't know which of her own citizensare her friends and which ain't. She's tied hand and foot. She can'teven turn round long enough to whip Mexico. Don't you ever expectAmerica to join in anything except family prayer, my boy. That's safe.You know where you are, and it don't matter if you don't agree aboutthe wording of a psalm. If an American was told off to shoot a German,he'd ten to one turn round and say: 'Here, hold on a minute; that's myuncle!'"

  "You think all the Germans in the States prefer their fatherland totheir adopted country, or are they most of them spies?"

  "Spies?" said Hilderman, "I don't believe in spies. It stands toreason there can't be much spying done in any country. Over here, forinstance, for every German policeman in this country--for that's all aspy can be--there are about a thousand British policemen. What chancehas the spy? You don't seriously believe in them, do you?" he added,smiling, as he offered me a Corona cigar.

  "I don't know," I said doubtfully. I didn't want to argue with my goodSamaritan. "There is no doubt a certain amount of spying
done; but, ofcourse, our policemen are hardly trained to cope with it. I daresaythe whole business is very greatly exaggerated."

  "You bet it is, my boy," he replied emphatically. "Going far?" heasked, suddenly changing the subject.

  "North of Loch Hourn," I answered.

  "Oh!" said Hilderman, with renewed interest. "Glenelg?"

  "I take the boat to Glenelg and then drive back," I explained. I wasin a mood to tell him just where I was going, and why, and all aboutmyself; but I recollected, with an effort, that I was talking to atotal stranger.

  "Drive back?" he repeated after me, with a sudden return to his dreamymanner. Then, just as suddenly, he woke up again. "Where are we now?"he asked.

  "Passing over Morar bridge," I explained.

  "Dear me--yes, of course!" he exclaimed, with a glance out of thewindow. "Well, I must pack up my wraps. Good-bye, Mr. Ewart; I'm soglad to have met you. Your country's at war, and you look to me a verylikely young man to do your best. Well, good-bye and good luck. I onlywish I could join you."

  "I wish you could," I replied heartily. "I shall certainly do my best.And many thanks for your kind assistance."

  And so we parted, and returned to our respective compartments to putour things together; for our journey--the rail part of it, at anyrate--was nearly over. And it was not until long afterwards that Irealised that he had called me by my name, and I had never told himwhat it was.