man I saw last week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to explain why you want to murder me.”
Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction was being woefully shaken. Saskia had said her enemy was a beautiful as a devil—he remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous. This man was magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his lean grave face.
“What’s your name?” the voice was asking.
“Tell me yours first,” Dickson essayed to stutter between spasms of nausea.
“My name is Alexander Nicholson,” was the answer.
“Then you’re no’ the man.” It was a cry of wrath and despair.
“You’re a very desperate little chap. For whom had I the honour to be mistaken?”
Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position and had clasped his hands above his aching head.
“I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul,” he groaned.
“Paul! Paul who?”
“Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot.”
Dickson could not see the change which his words wrought in the other’s face. He found himself picked up in strong arms and carried to a bog-pool where his battered face was carefully washed, his throbbing brows laved, and a wet handkerchief bound over them. Then he was given brandy in the socket of a flask, which eased his nausea. The cyclist ran his bicycle to the roadside, and found a seat for Dickson behind the turf-dyke of the old bucht.
“Now you are going to tell me everything,” he said. “If the Paul who is your enemy is the Paul I think him, then we are allies.”
But Dickson did not need this assurance. His mind had suddenly received a revelation. The Princess had expected an enemy, but also a friend. Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for whose sake she was rooted to Huntingtower with all its terrors?
“Are you sure your name’s no’ Alexis?” he asked.
“In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch, for I am a Russian. But for some years I have made my home with your folk, and I call myself Alexander Nicholson, which is the English form. Who told you about Alexis?
“Give me your hand,” said Dickson shamefacedly. “Man, she’s been looking for you for weeks. You’re terribly behind the fair.”
“She!” he cried. “For God’s sake, tell me what you mean.”
“Ay, she—the Princess. But what are we havering here for? I tell you at this moment she’s somewhere down about the old Tower, and there’s boatloads of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me up, man, for I must be off. The story will keep. Losh, it’s very near the darkening. If you’re Alexis, you’re just about in time for a battle.”
But Dickson on his feet was but a frail creature. He was still deplorably giddy, and his legs showed an unpleasing tendency to crumple. “I’m fair done,” he moaned. “You see, I’ve been tied up all day to a tree and had two sore bashes on my head. Get you on that bicycle and hurry on, and I’ll hirple after you the best I can. I’ll direct you the road, and if you’re lucky you’ll find a Die-Hard about the village. Away with you, man, and never mind me.”
“We go together,” said the other quietly. “You can sit behind me and hang on to my waist. Before you turned up I had pretty well got the thing in order.”
Dickson in a fever of impatience sat by while the Russian put the finishing touches to the machine, and as well as his anxiety allowed put him in possession of the main facts of the story. He told of how he and Heritage had come to Dalquharter, of the first meeting with Saskia, of the trip to Glasgow with the jewels, of the exposure of Loudon the factor, of last night’s doings in the House, and of the journey that morning to the Mains of Garple. He sketched the figures on the scene—Heritage and Sir Archie, Dobson and his gang, the Gorbals Die-Hards. He told of the enemy’s plans so far as he knew them.
“Looked at from a business point of view,” he said, “the situation’s like this. There’s Heritage in the Tower, with Dobson, Leon, and Spidel sitting round him. Somewhere about the place there’s the Princess and Sir Archibald and three men with guns from the Mains. Dougal and his five laddies are running loose in the policies. And there’s four tinklers and God knows how many foreign ruffians pushing up from the Garplefoot, and a brig lying waiting to carry off the ladies. Likewise there’s the police, somewhere on the road, though the dear kens when they’ll turn up. It’s awful the incompetence of our Government, and the rates and taxes that high!… And there’s you and me by this roadside, and me no more use than a tattie-bogle … That’s the situation, and the question is what’s our plan to be? We must keep the blagyirds in play till the police come, and at the same time we must keep the Princess out of danger. That’s why I’m wanting back, for they’ve sore need of a business head. Yon Sir Archibald’s a fine fellow, but I doubt he’ll be a bit rash, and the Princess is no’ to hold or bind. Our first job is to find Dougal and get a grip of the facts.”
“I am going to the Princess,” said the Russian.
“Ay, that’ll be best. You’ll be maybe able to manage her, for you’ll be well acquaint.”
“She is my kinswoman. She is also my affianced wife.”
“Keep us!” Dickson exclaimed, with a doleful thought of Heritage. “What ailed you then no’ to look after her better?”
“We have been long separated, because it was her will. She had work to do and disappeared from me, though I searched all Europe for her. Then she sent me word, when the danger became extreme, and summoned me to her aid. But she gave me poor directions, for she did not know her own plans very clearly. She spoke of a place called Darkwater, and I have been hunting half Scotland for it. It was only last night that I heard of Dalquharter and guessed that that might be the name. But I was far down in Galloway, and have ridden fifty miles today.”
“It’s a queer thing, but I wouldn’t take you for a Russian.”
Alexis finished his work and put away his tools.
“For the present,” he said, “I am an Englishman, till my country comes again to her senses. Ten years ago I left Russia, for I was sick of the foolishness of my class and wanted a free life in a new world. I went to Australia and made good as an engineer. I am a partner in a firm which is pretty well known even in Britain. When war broke out I returned to fight for my people, and when Russia fell out of the war, I joined the Australians in France and fought with them till the Armistice. And now I have only one duty left, to save the Princess and take her with me to my new home till Russia is a nation once more.”
Dickson whistled joyfully. “So Mr. Heritage was right. He aye said you were an Australian… And you’re a business man! That’s grand hearing and puts my mind at rest. You must take charge of the party at the House, for Sir Archibald’s a daft young lad and Mr. Heritage is a poet. I thought I would have to go myself, but I doubt I would just be a hindrance with my dwaibly legs. I’d be better outside, watching for the police… Are you ready, sir?”
Dickson not without difficulty perched himself astride the luggage carrier, firmly grasping the rider round the middle. The machine started, but it was evidently in a bad way, for it made poor going till the descent towards the main Auchenlochan road. On the slope it warmed up and they crossed the Garple bridge at a fair pace. There was to be no pleasant April twilight, for the stormy sky had already made dusk, and in a very little the dark would fall. So sombre was the evening that Dickson did not notice a figure in the shadow of the roadside pines till it whistled shrilly on its fingers. He cried on Alexis to stop, and, this being accomplished with some suddenness, fell off at Dougal’s feet.
“What’s the news?” he demanded.
Dougal glanced at Alexis and seemed to approve his looks.
“Napoleon has just reported that three boatloads, making either twenty-three or twenty-four men—they were gey ill to