hunt of Artemis and her maidens.
“He is a romantic,” she said. “I have known so many like him.”
“He’s no that,” said Dickson shortly. “Why he used to be aye laughing at me for being romantic. He’s one that’s looking for truth and reality, he says, and he’s terrible down on the kind of poetry I like myself.”
She smiled. “They all talk so. But you, my friend Dickson” (she pronounced the name in two staccato syllables ever so prettily), “you are different. Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m just what you see—a middle-aged retired grocer.”
“Grocer?” she queried. “Ah, yes, épicier. But you are a very remarkable épicier. Mr. Heritage I understand, but you and those little boys—no. I am sure of one thing—you are not a romantic. You are too humorous and—and—I think you are like Ulysses, for it would not be easy to defeat you.”
Her eyes were kind, nay affectionate, and Dickson experienced a preposterous rapture in his soul, followed by a sinking, as he realized how far the job was still from being completed.
“We must be getting on, Mem,” he said hastily, and the two plunged again into the heather.
The Ayr road was crossed, and the fir wood around the Mains became visible, and presently the white gates of the entrance. A wind-blown spire of smoke beyond the trees proclaimed that the house was not untenanted. As they entered the drive the Scots firs were tossing in the gale, which blew fiercely at this altitude, but, the dwelling itself being more in the hollow, the daffodil clumps on the lawn were but mildly fluttered.
The door was opened by a one-armed butler who bore all the marks of the old regular soldier. Dickson produced a card and asked to see his master on urgent business. Sir Archibald was at home, he was told, and had just finished breakfast. The two were led into a large bare chamber which had all the chill and mustiness of a bachelor’s drawing-room. The butler returned, and said Sir Archibald would see him. “I’d better go myself first and prepare the way, Mem,” Dickson whispered, and followed the man across the hall.
He found himself ushered into a fair-sized room where a bright fire was burning. On a table lay the remains of breakfast, and the odour of food mingled pleasantly with the scent of peat. The horns and heads of big game, foxes’ masks, the model of a gigantic salmon, and several bookcases adorned the walls, and books and maps were mixed with decanters and cigar-boxes on the long sideboard. After the wild out of doors the place seemed the very shrine of comfort. A young man sat in an arm-chair by the fire with a leg on a stool; he was smoking a pipe, and reading the Field, and on another stool at his elbow was a pile of new novels. He was a pleasant brown-faced young man, with remarkably smooth hair and a roving humorous eye.
“Come in, Mr. McCunn. Very glad to see you. If, as I take it, you’re the grocer, you’re a household name in these parts. I get all my supplies from you, and I’ve just been makin’ inroads on one of your divine hams. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’m very proud to hear what you say, Sir Archibald. But I’ve not come on business. I’ve come with the queerest story you ever heard in your life and I’ve come to ask your help.”
“Go ahead. A good story is just what I want this vile mornin’.”
“I’m not here alone. I’ve a lady with me.”
“God bless my soul! A lady!”
“Ay, a princess. She’s in the next room.”
The young man looked wildly at him and waved the book he had been reading.
“Excuse me, Mr. McCunn, but are you quite sober? I beg your pardon. I see you are. But you know, it isn’t done. Princesses don’t as a rule come here after breakfast to pass the time of day. It’s more absurd than this shocker I’ve been readin’.”
“All the same it’s a fact. She’ll tell you the story herself, and you’ll believe her quick enough. But to prepare your mind I’ll just give you a sketch of the events of the last few days.”
Before the sketch was concluded the young man had violently rung the bell. “Sime,” he shouted to the servant, “clear away this mess and lay the table again. Order more breakfast, all the breakfast you can get. Open the windows and get the tobacco smoke out of the air. Tidy up the place for there’s a lady comin’. Quick, you juggins!”
He was on his feet now, and, with his arm in Dickson’s, was heading for the door.
“My sainted aunt! And you topped off with pottin’ at the factor. I’ve seen a few things in my day, but I’m blessed if I ever met a bird like you!”
CHAPTER 11
GRAVITY OUT OF BED
It is probable that Sir Archibald Roylance did not altogether believe Dickson’s tale; it may be that he considered him an agreeable romancer, or a little mad, or no more than a relief to the tedium of a wet Sunday morning. But his incredulity did not survive one glance at Saskia as she stood in that bleak drawing-room among Victorian water-colours and faded chintzes. The young man’s boyishness deserted him. He stopped short in his tracks, and made a profound and awkward bow. “I am at your service, Mademoiselle,” he said, amazed at himself. The words seemed to have come out of a confused memory of plays and novels.
She inclined her head—a little on one side, and looked towards Dickson.
“Sir Archibald’s going to do his best for us,” said that squire of dames. “I was telling him that we had had our breakfast.”
“Let’s get out of this sepulchre,” said their host, who was recovering himself. “There’s a roasting fire in my den. Of course you’ll have something to eat—hot coffee, anyhow—I’ve trained my cook to make coffee like a Frenchwoman. The housekeeper will take charge of you, if you want to tidy up, and you must excuse our ramshackle ways, please. I don’t believe there’s ever been a lady in this house before, you know.”
He led her to the smoking-room and ensconced her in the great chair by the fire. Smilingly she refused a series of offers which ranged from a sheepskin mantle which he had got in the Pamirs and which he thought might fit her, to hot whisky and water as a specific against a chill. But she accepted a pair of slippers and deftly kicked off the brogues provided by Mrs. Morran. Also, while Dickson started rapaciously on a second breakfast, she allowed him to pour her out a cup of coffee.
“You are a soldier?” she asked.
“Two years infantry—5th Battalion Lennox Highlanders, and then Flying Corps. Top-hole time I had too till the day before the Armistice, when my luck gave out and I took a nasty toss. Consequently I’m not as fast on my legs now as I’d like to be.”
“You were a friend of Captain Kennedy?”
“His oldest. We were at the same private school, and he was at m’tutors, and we were never much separated till he went abroad to cram for the Diplomatic and I started east to shoot things.”
“Then I will tell you what I told Captain Kennedy.” Saskia, looking into the heart of the peats, began the story of which we have already heard a version, but she told it differently, for she was telling it to one who more or less belonged to her own world. She mentioned names at which the other nodded. She spoke of a certain Paul Abreskov. “I heard of him at Bokhara in 1912,” said Sir Archie, and his face grew solemn. Sometimes she lapsed into French, and her hearer’s brow wrinkled, but he appeared to follow. When she had finished he drew a long breath.
“My aunt! What a time you’ve been through! I’ve seen pluck in my day, but yours! It’s not thinkable. D’you mind if I ask a question, Princess? Bolshevism we know all about, and I admit Trotsky and his friends are a pretty effective push; but how on earth have they got a world-wide