The Collected Works of John Buchan (Illustrated). Buchan John

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      The old man’s manner was perfect. ‘Mr Hannay?’ he said hesitatingly. ‘Did you wish to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I’ll rejoin you. We had better go to the smoking-room.’

      Though I hadn’t an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself to play the game. I pulled up a chair and sat down on it.

      ‘I think we have met before,’ I said, ‘and I guess you know my business.’

      The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their faces, they played the part of mystification very well.

      ‘Maybe, maybe,’ said the old man. ‘I haven’t a very good memory, but I’m afraid you must tell me your errand, Sir, for I really don’t know it.’

      ‘Well, then,’ I said, and all the time I seemed to myself to be talking pure foolishness—’I have come to tell you that the game’s up. I have a warrant for the arrest of you three gentlemen.’

      ‘Arrest,’ said the old man, and he looked really shocked. ‘Arrest! Good God, what for?’

      ‘For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day of last month.’

      ‘I never heard the name before,’ said the old man in a dazed voice.

      One of the others spoke up. ‘That was the Portland Place murder. I read about it. Good heavens, you must be mad, Sir! Where do you come from?’

      ‘Scotland Yard,’ I said.

      After that for a minute there was utter silence. The old man was staring at his plate and fumbling with a nut, the very model of innocent bewilderment.

      Then the plump one spoke up. He stammered a little, like a man picking his words.

      ‘Don’t get flustered, uncle,’ he said. ‘It is all a ridiculous mistake; but these things happen sometimes, and we can easily set it right. It won’t be hard to prove our innocence. I can show that I was out of the country on the 23rd of May, and Bob was in a nursing home. You were in London, but you can explain what you were doing.’

      ‘Right, Percy! Of course that’s easy enough. The 23rd! That was the day after Agatha’s wedding. Let me see. What was I doing? I came up in the morning from Woking, and lunched at the club with Charlie Symons. Then—oh yes, I dined with the Fishmongers. I remember, for the punch didn’t agree with me, and I was seedy next morning. Hang it all, there’s the cigar-box I brought back from the dinner.’ He pointed to an object on the table, and laughed nervously.

      ‘I think, Sir,’ said the young man, addressing me respectfully, ‘you will see you are mistaken. We want to assist the law like all Englishmen, and we don’t want Scotland Yard to be making fools of themselves. That’s so, uncle?’

      ‘Certainly, Bob.’ The old fellow seemed to be recovering his voice. ‘Certainly, we’ll do anything in our power to assist the authorities. But—but this is a bit too much. I can’t get over it.’

      ‘How Nellie will chuckle,’ said the plump man. ‘She always said that you would die of boredom because nothing ever happened to you. And now you’ve got it thick and strong,’ and he began to laugh very pleasantly.

      ‘By Jove, yes. just think of it! What a story to tell at the club. Really, Mr Hannay, I suppose I should be angry, to show my innocence, but it’s too funny! I almost forgive you the fright you gave me! You looked so glum, I thought I might have been walking in my sleep and killing people.’

      It couldn’t be acting, it was too confoundedly genuine. My heart went into my boots, and my first impulse was to apologize and clear out. But I told myself I must see it through, even though I was to be the laughing-stock of Britain. The light from the dinner-table candlesticks was not very good, and to cover my confusion I got up, walked to the door and switched on the electric light. The sudden glare made them blink, and I stood scanning the three faces.

      Well, I made nothing of it. One was old and bald, one was stout, one was dark and thin. There was nothing in their appearance to prevent them being the three who had hunted me in Scotland, but there was nothing to identify them. 1 simply can’t explain why I who, as a roadman, had looked into two pairs of eyes, and as Ned Ainslie into another pair, why I, who have a good memory and reasonable powers of observation, could find no satisfaction. They seemed exactly what they professed to be, and I could not have sworn to one of them.

      There in that pleasant dining-room, with etchings on the walls, and a picture of an old lady in a bib above the mantelpiece, I could see nothing to connect them with the moorland desperadoes. There was a silver cigarette-box beside me, and I saw that it had been won by Percival Appleton, Esq., of the St Bede’s Club, in a golf tournament. I had to keep a firm hold of Peter Pienaar to prevent myself bolting out of that house.

      ‘Well,’ said the old man politely, ‘are you reassured by your scrutiny, Sir?’

      I couldn’t find a word.

      ‘I hope you’ll find it consistent with your duty to drop this ridiculous business. I make no complaint, but you’ll see how annoying it must be to respectable people.’

      I shook my head.

      ‘O Lord,’ said the young man. ‘This is a bit too thick!’

      ‘Do you propose to march us off to the police station?’ asked the plump one. ‘That might be the best way out of it, but I suppose you won’t be content with the local branch. I have the right to ask to see your warrant, but I don’t wish to cast any aspersions upon you. You are only doing your duty. But you’ll admit it’s horribly awkward. What do you propose to do?’

      There was nothing to do except to call in my men and have them arrested, or to confess my blunder and clear out. I felt mesmerized by the whole place, by the air of obvious innocence—not innocence merely, but frank honest bewilderment and concern in the three faces.

      ‘Oh, Peter Pienaar,’ I groaned inwardly, and for a moment I was very near damning myself for a fool and asking their pardon.

      ‘Meantime I vote we have a game of bridge,’ said the plump one. ‘It will give Mr Hannay time to think over things, and you know we have been wanting a fourth player. Do you play, Sir?’

      I accepted as if it had been an ordinary invitation at the club. The whole business had mesmerized me. We went into the smoking-room where a card-table was set out, and I was offered things to smoke and drink. I took my place at the table in a kind of dream. The window was open and the moon was flooding the cliffs and sea with a great tide of yellow light. There was moonshine, too, in my head. The three had recovered their composure, and were talking easily—just the kind of slangy talk you will hear in any golf club-house. I must have cut a rum figure, sitting there knitting my brows with my eyes wandering.

      My partner was the young dark one. I play a fair hand at bridge, but I must have been rank bad that night. They saw that they had got me puzzled, and that put them more than ever at their ease. I kept looking at their faces, but they conveyed nothing to me. It was not that they looked different; they were different. I clung desperately to the words of Peter Pienaar.

      Then something awoke me.

      The old man laid down his hand to light a cigar. He didn’t pick it up at once, but sat back for a moment in his chair, with his fingers tapping on his knees.

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