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I bared my metaphorical breast, and with as close an imitation of a clear-conscienced young man revealing the harmless necessary truth as I could achieve without rehearsal, I told him, "I have only informed one person, and she is thoroughly trustworthy." "She!" said my uncle, not very loudly but extremely unpleasantly. "She is Miss Rendall," I added.
Before I moved again I had transferred something from my hip pocket to my oilskin jacket and I kept my hand there too, closed upon it and ready. Then I advanced. "Is that you, Mr. Merton?" said a voice I knew. "It is, Mr. Rendall," I answered drily. "Did you see anybody?" "No," I answered truthfully. "We thought we heard a cry," said Miss Jean.
They might know him familiarly as a prosperous farmer or a hardy fisherman or as their own doctor or their doctor's guest, or no, he could not be their laird for Mr. Rendall was too tall. In short my talk with Jock had proved nothing one way or the other. And yet my whole failure to come upon any trace of the gang in spite of all my ingenuity did set me thinking.
Still, in any event it seemed to me of prime importance to disseminate a report of a suspicious stranger as widely and quickly as possible, so I selected the middle of another mouthful as the moment of enquiring. "This pretty farm, my friend, does it belong to you?" "No," said my host, "the island a' belongs to Mr. Rendall." "So!" said I. "And this Mr. Rendall, where does he live in London?"
In fact I wasn't sure till that walk along the shore. I arranged that to make quite certain." "You arranged it!" I exclaimed. "The deuce you did, Miss Rendall!" She laughed defiantly. "I was dying to make sure! So when I saw you coming towards the house, I rushed into my things and went out to meet you.
There was nothing in this good-humoured villager surely Pomona's self in a cotton print, somewhat older than is usual with that goddess nothing but what served to banish these nightmares of her lonely recollection. Only, mind you, Sam Rendall that was Wat Tyler's name, this time was a good man, who deserved to have had that daughter's children on his knee. She, Maisie, had deserted hers.
"But I am sorry to say I don't own it," said the doctor. "I am afraid you must be mistaking me for my cousin, Philip Rendall. He's the laird; I'm only the doctor." "The damned doctor," added Mr. O'Brien with a grin. I began to apologise, but O'Brien who was by this time in capital spirits, interrupted me with, "Faith, you needn't apologise, Mr. Merton.
The fine weather still held, bright sunshine with a nip in the air and the road underfoot firm with frost, and I strode along in a wonderfully confident mood, all things considered. For to tell the truth, I had been funking this visit. Instinctively I did not trust myself with Miss Jean Rendall.
"Well, there was just one thing that made me suspicious for a moment, but then I came to the conclusion that my suspicious wouldn't hold water. A short time ago Dr. Rendall came in to see me and begged for leave to keep another drunk what he called an alcoholic patient.
I thought, and as it was, the recollection of dainty Miss Rendall made me determined to borrow a razor forthwith. I foresaw that lunch would be a function demanding considerable tact.
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