A SCRAP OF PAPER
Pratt had just stripped off his clothes, and spread them to dry, when
Warrender arrived in the dinghy.
"What's the game, you chaps?" he inquired. "Why a second bath, Pratt?"
"Eyes left!" responded Pratt. "The sight of my habiliments basking in
the sunlight will inform you that I have just been performing a cinema
stunt--plunging fully clothed into the boiling torrent to rescue the
heroine, whom the villain----"
"Dry up!" said Armstrong.
"Just what I am trying to do. But you are bursting with information,
old chap. Expound. I am all ears."
"You tied up the boat as usual, Warrender?" Armstrong asked.
"Of course. Why?"
"Pratt saw her drifting down the stream, that's all, and had to dive in
to prevent her getting right past the island."
"That's rum," said Warrender. "The knot couldn't have worked loose.
Who's been monkeying with her?"
"That's the point," said Armstrong. "There's some one else on the
island, and whoever it is, wants the place to himself. Setting the boat
adrift seemed to him a first step to driving us away, which shows he is
a juggins."
"Q.E.D.," said Pratt. "Now the corollary, if you please."
"Wait a bit," Warrender interposed. "It may be only a stupid practical
joke--the sort of thing the intelligence of that poacher fellow might
rise to."
"It may be, of course," returned Armstrong, "but I think it's more. You
remember what Miss Crawshay and the people at the inn told us about the
island being haunted, you know? Well, rumours of that sort are just what
might be set going by some one who has reasons of his own for keeping
people away. It may be Rush; we found a rabbit-snare this morning; but
if it is, there's some one else in the game. Last night, as I was
returning to camp, I saw a face in the thicket, just for a moment; it
was gone in a flash; but it wasn't Rush's face; it was a different type
altogether."
"Why on earth didn't you tell us?" asked Warrender.
"Well, I might have been mistaken; moonlight plays all sorts of tricks;
besides----"
"Just so, old man," said Pratt. "Are there visions abroad? The
witching hour of night----"
"Let's keep to cold fact," Warrender put in. "You saw a face, and it
wasn't Rush's; but Rush lied to us about the island to keep us off it;
therefore Rush and some unknown person are in league. What next?"
"Pratt saw some one in one of the rooms of the ruined cottage as we
approached it an hour or so ago. We hunted through the place, but
couldn't find any one. I noticed one strange fact: that while some of
the rooms are thick with dust, the staircase and one of the rooms
upstairs are pretty clear, although there's no sign whatever of anybody
living there. There's not a stick of furniture. What is the cottage
used for?"
"Is there anything particular about the upstairs room?" Warrender asked.
"Nothing that I could see," replied Armstrong.
"Except that it gives a magnificent view," Pratt added. "You can see my
uncle's grounds, and up and down the river. It was when I was looking
out of the window that I saw the boat adrift."
"Well, I think I'll have a look at the place," said Warrender, "and if
you'll take my advice, Percy, you'll go up in the dinghy, get into dry
togs, and give an eye to the camp."
"Righto! There ought to be some one at home to receive callers. You'll
be back to lunch, I suppose?"
Warrender nodded, and strode off with Armstrong towards the ruins.
Together they explored the house from roof to cellar, seeking, not for
an inhabitant, but for some clue to the puzzle suggested by the partly
cleared floors. No discovery rewarded them. It was not until they were
inspecting the cellar that Armstrong remembered the scrap of paper he
had picked up there. Taking it out of his pocket when they returned to
daylight, he handed it to Warrender.
"Is it Greek?" he asked.
"No," replied Warrender. "I fancy it's Russian; a scrap torn from a
Russian newspaper, by the look of it. Pretty old, too, judging by the
colour."
"I don't know. It's brown at the edge, but that's due to the scorching
it got when the other papers were burned. It's fairly clean everywhere
else. You can't read it, then?"
"Not a word; how should I? Russian's a modern language; belongs more to
your side than mine. Besides, what if I could? A newspaper wouldn't
tell us anything."
"Very likely not. But a Russian newspaper would hardly be in the
possession of anybody but a Russian, and what was a Russian ever doing
here?"
"Ah! I think I see daylight. What if it belonged to one of what Pratt
calls his uncle's menagerie of foreigners? They might come here in
their off times. There's nothing very wonderful about it after all; but
as there's nothing valuable in the ruins, they can't have any object in
trying to keep us out. My belief is that that fellow Rush set the boat
drifting out of sheer mischief, and we'd better keep our eye on him."
On leaving the ruins it occurred to Armstrong to examine the
surroundings more narrowly than he had yet done. The flower-beds and
the moss-grown path in the direction of the jetty showed the impress of
his own and Pratt's feet, but another path, which they had not trodden,
also bore slight marks of use. Following it up with Warrender, he found
that it led to a narrow track through the undergrowth, leading southward
almost in a straight line. In single file they made their way along
this, and came presently to a shallow indentation in the western shore,
near its southern end.
"Pratt and I must have crossed this track a while ago," said Armstrong;
"but I didn't notice it, and I'm sure he didn't."
"Look here," said Warrender, who had bent down to examine the grass and
shrubs growing on the low bank. "Wouldn't you say that a boat had been
run in? In fact, it's been drawn up on to the bank. Here's a distinct
mark of the keel--a small rowing-boat, I should think."
"Not very recent, is it?"
"But certainly not very ancient, or it wouldn't be so distinct. It's on
Crawshay's arm of the river, though. D'you know, Armstrong, I shouldn't
be surprised if it turns out we're a set of jackasses. I dare say the
place teems with rabbits, and there are plenty of fellows besides Rush
who'd be glad of getting their dinner for nothing, and would want to
keep other people out of their preserves. Let's be getting back."
On arriving at their encampment they took the precaution of drawing the
bow of the motorboat well on to the bank, and securing it firmly to a
stout sapling. The dinghy, which Pratt had tied to a projecting root,
they carried ashore, and placed behind the tent.
Pratt was sitting on his chair, tuning his banjo.
"You perceive I have not been idle," he said. "You couldn't have carried
the dinghy with such agile ease if I hadn't emptied her first. Your
marketing was a success, Warrender?"
"Yes, I got everything we wanted except petrol. By the way, Pratt,
there's a rival troubadour in the village."
"I say! Surely not a banjo?"
"A banjo it is, and the player is no other than that general dealer
fellow--what's his name? Blevins. I went up to the shop to get a can of
petrol, and heard the tum-ti-tum and a tenor voice as good as your
own----"
"Don't crush me quite!"
"Warbling one of your own songs out of the open window above the
shop--'Love me and the world is mine.' Really it might have been you,
only the fellow has a little more of what you call the tremolo, don't
you?"
"Vibrato--if you want to know. But hang it! The glory is departed.
Another banjo, another tenor--and singing my songs! Pity we're not in
Spain."
"Why on earth?" asked Armstrong.
"Because then we'd meet on some delicious moonlit night under the window
of some fair senorita, and after trying to sing each other down like a
couple of cats, we'd have a bit of a turn-up, and I'd have a chance to
show I'm the better man. But how do you know it was the general dealer?
It might have been some fair swain as comely as myself."
"I'll tell you. I went into the shop, and asked the sheepish young
fellow there for one of the cans of petrol I saw against the wall. He
declared they were all for Mr. Pratt at the Red House. There were at
least half a dozen, and I protested that Mr. Pratt couldn't possibly
want them all at once, and insisted on his fetching his employer. The
singing had been going on all the time. It stopped a couple of seconds
after the fellow had gone into the house, and the man Blevins came into
the shop. It's a fair deduction that he and the singer were one."
"It is, it is," murmured Pratt, mournfully, throwing a glance across the
river.
"What _are_ you squinting at?" asked Armstrong. "I've noticed you
several times; what's there to look at?"
"There's me," replied Pratt, quickly. "Look at me, old chap, or at any
rate, don't look that way; tell you why presently. Well, what about old
Blevins, Warrender? My hat! what a name for a light tenor!"
"I asked him for one can to go on with. He was very polite--oily, in
fact;--regretted extremely that he couldn't oblige me; the whole supply
had been ordered for Mr. Pratt, and he daren't offend so good a
customer."
"But I thought my uncle was away from home."
"Of course. Why didn't I remember that? Anyhow, while he was talking,
in came that little foreign chauffeur we saw yesterday--an Italian, I
fancy: he talked just like those Italian waiters at Gatti's. He had
come to order a car; said that Mr. Pratt's car had broken down, and he
had had to tow it to Dartmouth for repairs. He'd keep Blevins's car
until the repairs were done. Blevins was a bit offhand with me after
that. I suppose it was the regular tradesman's attitude to a less
important customer. Anyhow, he told me rather bluntly that I couldn't
have any petrol till to-morrow, and I came away."
"Quite right. You couldn't argue with a fellow who sucks up to my
uncle, and sings my songs. I say, I think I shall go in for diplomacy.
Don't you think I'd make a first-class attache, or whatever they call
'em?"
Astonished at the sudden change of subject, they looked at him. He
winked.
"You know," he went on--"one of those fellows in foreign capitals whose
job it is to see and hear everything, and look innocent, while inside
they're as wily as the cunningest old serpent. Your chronicle of
Blevins is very small beer, Warrender; and while you've been yarning on
about your old petrol, I've been corking myself up with something vastly
more interesting, and you hadn't the least notion of it. That's why I'm
sure I'd make no end of a hit in the diplomatic corps. Just keep your
eyes fixed on my goodly countenance, will you? and I'll enlighten your
understanding."
He took up his banjo, which he had laid across his knees, struck a note
or two, then proceeded--
"After I'd changed, and carried up your purchases, I sat me down to
beguile the tedium of waiting for you with my unfailing resource.
Happening to glance across the river, I caught sight of some one
watching me from the thick of a shrub, and my lively imagination
conjured up the goose-flesh sensations of old Armstrong last night.
With that presence of mind which will serve me well in my climb up the
diplomatic ladder to a peerage, I hummed a stave of 'Somewhere a voice
is calling,' and turned my head away with the grace of a peacefully
browsing gazelle; but the fellow's been watching me for the last
half-hour, and I bet he doesn't know he's been spotted. Armstrong,
you've got the best eyes. While I go on gassing, just look round as if
you were jolly well bored stiff--no, I've a better idea; go into the
tent, and take a squint through that small tear on the side facing the
river, and fix your eyes on the shrub--I fancy it's a lilac past its
prime--that fills the space between two beeches in the background. I
don't flatter myself that the fellow was attracted by my dulcet strains,
and if he's watching me, you may be sure he's watching all of us."
Armstrong got up, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and
strolled nonchalantly into the tent. In a couple of minutes he returned
in the same unconcerned way.
"You're right," he said, drawing up his chair beside Pratt's. "I saw a
slight movement among the leaves, and a face. I'm not quite sure, but I
believe it's that poacher fellow. It's certainly not the face I saw
last night."
"Well, now, what interest do you suppose Siren Rush takes in us? And
what's he doing in my uncle's grounds? D'you think my uncle's a bit
potty, and sets Rush to keep watch like a warder on a tower? Is he
afraid of some one squatting on his land in his absence? I don't
suppose we're far wrong in accusing Rush of setting the boat adrift, but
what's his motive in watching us? It's not mere curiosity; but if not
curiosity, what is it?"
"We must wait and see," said Warrender.
"That's very prudent, but it promises poor sport," Pratt rejoined. "By
the way, I suppose you didn't find anything fresh in the ruins?"
"Nothing. But Armstrong picked up a scrap of paper in the cellar this
morning--a bit of a Russian newspaper. Hand it over, Armstrong."
"No," said Pratt, quickly. "Don't show it. I don't suppose Siren Rush
can read Russian any more than I can; the paper can't be his, but he'd
better not see us examining anything. Where did you find it,
Armstrong?"
"In the cellar, by a heap of paper ash."
"Incriminating documents, as they say in the police courts. But why
Russian? Look here, I know a man in London who reads Russian; he seems
to like it. Give me the paper presently. We'll go into the village this
afternoon and post it to him. I can't see how it will throw any light
on things here, but we can at least get it translated. And now, let's
have lunch."