After breakfast next morning Foster asked the hotel porter to take his
knapsack to the station and get him a ticket to Carlisle. He must
leave a clew for Daly, who might come back to Hawick when he failed to
find him in Annandale but would be badly puzzled if he went to
Carlisle, because it was an important railway center, where one would
have a choice of several different routes. This would give Foster a
few quiet days, after which he must think of a way of inducing Daly to
resume the chase. The latter probably thought he was following
Lawrence, and if he did not, no doubt concluded that Foster was working
in concert with him, and to find one would help him to deal with the
other.
It was a dark morning and the smoke of the woolen factories hung about
the town. A few lights burned in the station, but the building was
gloomy and Foster had some trouble in finding the porter among the
waiting passengers. Soon after he did so, the train came in and the
man hurried along the platform, looking into the carriages.
"Ye wanted a corridor, sir," he said as he opened a door.
Foster got in and stood at the window until the porter went away.
People were running up and down looking for places, but he had no time
to lose. Opening the door on the opposite side, he went along the
corridor and stood for a moment on the step at the other end of the
carriage. He could not see the porter, and when two or three
passengers ran up got down from the step. Next moment the whistle
blew, the engine snorted, and the train rolled out of the station.
As none of the porters spoke to him, Foster thought he had managed the
thing neatly and made it look as if he had come to see somebody off
instead of having been left behind. For all that, he waited a minute
or two, studying a time-table, to avoid the risk of overtaking the
hotel porter; and then made his way by back streets out of the town.
For some miles, the road he took ran south up a well-cultivated valley,
past turnip and stubble fields and smooth pasture; and then changed to
a rough stony track that climbed a hill.
A turn shut in the valley when he reached higher ground, and a long
stretch of moor rolled away ahead. Foster thought these sharp
transitions from intensive cultivation to the sterile wilds were
characteristic of southern Scotland. It had rained since he left
Hawick, but now the sun shone down between the clouds and bright gleams
and flying shadows chased each other across the waste. To the south
the sky was clear and shone with a lemon-yellow glow, against which the
rounded hills rose, delicately gray. In one place there was a gap that
Foster thought was Liddesdale, and his path led across the latter
towards the head of Tyne. Not a house broke the sweep of withered
grass and heath, and only the crying of plover that circled in the
distance disturbed the silence.
Foster liked the open trail and went on with a light step, until as he
crossed the watershed and the country sloped to the south, he came to a
wire fence and saw the black mouth of a railway tunnel beneath. It was
now about two o'clock, and feeling hungry, he sat down where a bank cut
off the wind, and took out some food he had bought at Hawick. He did
not know if he found the shining rails and row of telegraph posts that
curved away down the hillside out of place, but somehow they made him
feel foolishly unconventional. His boots and mackintosh were wet, he
was lunching on sweet biscuits and gingerbread, and did not know where
he would spend the night, although it would not be at a comfortable
hotel. Until he saw the tunnel, he had felt at home in the wilds and
might have done so yet, had he, for example, been driving a flock of
sheep; but the railway was disturbing.
In this country, people traveled by steam-heated trains, instead of on
foot, and engaged a lawyer to defend them from their enemies. He was
going back to the methods of two or three centuries ago, and not even
doing this properly, since the moss-troopers who once rode through
those hills carried lances instead of a check-book, which was after all
his best weapon. He laughed and felt himself something of a modern Don
Quixote as he lighted his pipe.
Then there was a roar in the tunnel and a North British express,
leaping out through a cloud of smoke, switched his thoughts on to
another track. His adventures had begun in a train, and it was in a
train he met the girl who warned him not to deliver Carmen's packet.
He did not see what the packet had to do with him, but he had had some
trouble about it and thought it might turn up again. Then he wondered
whether Daly was now in Annandale. The fellow was obviously determined
to find Lawrence, and, if one admitted that he had come to England for
the purpose, did not mind how much it cost him, which was rather
strange. After all, blackmailing was a risky business and the
Featherstones were not rich. It looked as if Daly might have some
other object in tracking Lawrence, but Foster could not see what it
was. Indeed, he was frankly puzzled. There was a mystery about
Carmen's packet, he had been warned out of Edinburgh, and inquiries
about him were afterwards made, while Daly's keenness was not quite
explained. He wondered whether these things were somehow related, but
at present they only offered him tangled clews that led nowhere. Well,
he might be able to unravel them by and by, and getting up went on his
way.
He spent the night at a lonely cothouse on the edge of a peat-moss and
reached the Garth next afternoon. John let him in and after taking his
mackintosh remarked: "Mr. and Mrs. Featherstone are out, but Miss
Featherstone is at home; I will let her know you have arrived." Then
he paused and added in a half-apologetic tone: "I hope you had a
pleasant journey, sir."
Foster smiled. John had softened his imperturbable formality by just
the right touch of respectful interest. In a sense, they were
accomplices, but Foster thought if they had committed a crime together,
the old fellow would have treated him with unmoved deference as his
master's guest.
"On the whole, I had. I suppose you met the other car when you turned
back at the station?"
"Yes, sir. I met it coming round the bend."
"As the road's narrow, your judgment's pretty good. Did anything
happen?"
John's eyes twinkled faintly. "Not to our car, sir. The other had the
bad luck to run on to the grass where the ground was soft. In fact, we
had some trouble to pull her out. The gentleman seemed annoyed, sir."
Foster went to his room chuckling. He could imagine the deferential
way in which John, who had caused the accident, had offered help. When
we went down Alice met him in the hall and he thrilled at something in
her manner as she gave him her hand. It was getting dark and the glow
of the fire flickered among the shadows, but there was only one lamp,
and as it was shaded the light did not travel far beyond the small
table, on which tea was presently served. This hinted at seclusion and
homelike intimacy. An embroidered cloth half-covered the dark,
polished oak, the china was old but unusually delicate, and the blue
flame of a spirit lamp burned beneath the copper kettle.
Foster thought everything showed signs of fastidious taste, but there
was something austere about it that harmonized with the dignified
shabbiness of the house. It was, for example, very different from the
prettiness of the Edinburgh tea-room, and he thought it hinted of the
character of the Borderers. For all that, the society of his companion
had the greatest charm. Alice was plainly dressed, but simplicity
became her. The girl had the Border spirit, with its reserves of
strength and tenderness. Now she was quietly friendly, but Foster knew
her friendship was not lightly given and was worth much.
Alice made him talk about his journey and he did so frankly, except
that he did not mention his meeting the girl in the tea-room or the
detective's visit to his hotel. Still he felt a certain embarrassment,
as he had done when he told his partner's story. It was rather hard to
relate his own exploits, and he knew Alice would note any error he was
led into by vanity or false diffidence.
"Then it was really to keep a promise to Miss Austin you went to
Newcastle," she remarked presently. "Since she sent you with the
packet, you must know her pretty well."
"Yes," said Foster, "in a way, we are good friends. You see there are
not a great many people at the Crossing."
Alice gave him a quiet glance. He was not such a fool as to imagine it
mattered to her whether he knew Carmen well or not. But he thought she
was not altogether pleased.
"What is Miss Austin like?" she asked.
Foster was careful about his reply. He wanted Alice to understand that
he was not Carmen's lover, which needed tact; but he was her friend and
must do her justice, while any breach of good taste would be noted and
condemned. He did his best, without learning if he had produced the
right effect, for Alice let the matter drop, as if it no longer
interested her.
"Perhaps it's a pity you helped the men who were poaching," she said.
"I'm afraid you're fond of romantic adventures."
"I'm sometimes rash and sorry afterwards," Foster admitted. "However,
there's an excuse for the other thing. This is a romantic country and
I've spent a long time in Canada, which is altogether businesslike."
Alice gave him an approving smile, but she said, "One shouldn't be
sorry afterwards. Isn't that rather weak?"
"I'm human," Foster rejoined. "A thing looks different when you come
to pay for doing it. It's pretty hard not to feel sorry then."
"After all, that may be better than counting the cost beforehand and
leaving the thing undone."
"You're a Borderer; one of the headstrong, old-fashioned kind that
broke the invasions and afterwards defied their own rulers for a whim."
"As a matter of fact, a number of them were very businesslike. They
fought for their enemies' cattle and the ransom of captured knights."
"Not always," Foster objected. "At Flodden, where the Ettrick spears
all fell in the smashed squares, the Scots king came down from his
strong camp to meet the English on equal terms. Then it wasn't
businesslike when Buccleugh, with his handful of men, carried off
Kimmont Willie from Carlisle. There was peace between the countries
and he had two offended sovereigns to hold him accountable."
"It looks as if you had been reading something about our history,"
Alice said smiling.
"I haven't read much," Foster answered modestly. "Still, we have a few
books at the mill, and in the long winter evenings, when the
thermometer marks forty degrees below and you sit close to the red-hot
stove, there's nothing to do but read. It would be hard for you to
picture our little room; the match-boarding, split by the changes from
heat to bitter cold, the smell of hot iron, the dead silence, and the
grim white desolation outside. Perhaps it's curious, but after working
hard all day, earning dollars, one can't read rubbish. One wants
romance, but romance that's real and has the truth in it."
"But your own life has been full of adventure."
"In a way, but there was always a business proposition to justify the
risk. It's good to be reckless now and then, and I've felt as I read
about your ancestors that I envied them. There must have been some
charm in riding about the moors with one's lady's glove on one's steel
cap, ready to follow where adventure called."
"So far as we know," said Alice, "it was the custom to honor one lady,
always. The Border chiefs were rude, but they had their virtues, and
there are some pretty stories of their constancy."
Foster imagined he saw a faint sparkle in her eyes. He would have
liked to think she resented his having gone to Newcastle on Carmen's
behalf, but doubted this. After a pause she resumed:
"People say we are decadent and getting slack with luxury, but one
likes to think the spirit of the race survives all changed conditions
and can't be destroyed. There is a colliery not very far off where the
water broke in some years ago. The men in the deep workings were cut
off, but the few who escaped went back into the pit--and never came up.
They knew the thing was impossible, their leaders frankly told them so,
but they would not be denied. Well, the colliery was not reopened, the
shaft-head towers are falling down, but there's a granite fountain on
the moor that will stand for ages to record the splendid sacrifice."
"They had all to lose," said Foster. "One must admire, without hoping
to emulate, a deed like that."
Alice changed the subject rather abruptly. "What you have told me is
puzzling. I can't see why the police followed you, and there's
something mysterious about the packet. It all seems connected with
Lawrence's affairs, and yet I can't see how. I suppose you have no
explanation?"
"Not yet. I feel there's something going on in which I may by and by
take a part. The clews break off, but I may find one that's stronger,
and then----"
He stopped, but Alice gave him an understanding glance. "Then you
would follow the clew, even if it led you into some danger, for
Lawrence's sake?"
"I'd try," said Foster, with a flush that gave him a curiously
ingenuous look. "As I've no particular talent for that kind of thing,
I mightn't do much good, but you have accused me of being romantic and
I've owned that I am rash."
Alice smiled. "You're certainly modest; but there's a rashness that is
much the same as generosity."
Then Featherstone came in and after a time took Foster to the library,
where he gave him a cigarette.
"It's strange we haven't heard from Lawrence yet," he said in a
disturbed voice. "He hasn't given the Canadian post office his new
address, because here's a letter they have sent on."
"From Hulton, who seems to be in Toronto," said Foster, picking up the
envelope. "As I'm a partner, I'll open it."
He did so and gave Featherstone the letter, which inquired if they
could supply some lumber the company needed.
"I'm sorry we can't do the work, because we won't be back in time. It
would have been an interesting job to cut the stuff in the way Hulton
wants."
"He seems to leave a good deal to your judgment and to have no doubt
about your sending him the right material."
"I suppose that is so," Foster agreed. "Hulton soon got into the way
of sending for Lawrence when he wanted any lumber that had to be
carefully sawn. In fact, he treats him as a kind of consulting
specialist, and I imagine likes him personally."
He was silent for the next minute or two. Featherstone's remark had
shown him more clearly than he had hitherto realized how high Lawrence
stood in the manufacturer's esteem. No other outsider was treated with
such confidence. Then he told Featherstone about his journey, and the
latter said:
"I have heard nothing from Daly, but soon after you left, a gentleman
from Edinburgh came here to inquire about you."
"Ah!" said Foster, rather sharply. "I suppose he was sent by the
police and imagine I met him at my hotel. His name was Gordon; I
thought it curious that he gave me his card."
"That was the name. He asked if I knew you and I said I did."
"Then it looks as if he meant to test my statements. Did he seem
surprised to learn I was staying here?"
"It was hard to tell what the fellow thought; but somehow I felt that
he expected to find your story true. He, however, gave me no
information. What do you suppose he wants?"
"I can't imagine; the thing's puzzling. What makes it stranger is that
I thought the interest Gordon took in me was, so to speak, benevolent."
"But why should it be benevolent, if he had any ground for suspecting
you?" Featherstone asked.
Foster glanced at him keenly. There was a change in his host's manner,
which had grown less cordial, but he admitted that Featherstone's
confidence was being subjected to some strain. It would certainly be
disturbing to find the police inquiring about him. Lawrence had not
written, and Foster saw that there was much in his statements that
sounded rather lame.
"I don't understand the matter at all; but it might be better if I left
quietly in the morning," he said. "If I don't put Daly on my trail
again, he may come back."
"Very well," said Featherstone, getting up. "But what did you do with
Lawrence's bag?"
"I left it at a Peebles hotel. I thought if Daly found it was there,
it would give him a place to watch."
Featherstone gloomily made a sign of agreement. "I wish Lawrence would
write to us. We are getting anxious about him and a letter would put
our minds at rest."