The Exploits of Solar Pons

1

“What on earth are you doing there, Pons?”

I paused on the threshold of our sitting-room at 7B Praed Street in astonishment. It was a bitterly cold morning in early February and I had just come in from a particularly fatiguing case.

On opening the door I was immediately confronted with the spectacle of my friend Solar Pons, his lean, angular figure recumbent on the carpet, his right hand holding the gleaming barrel of a revolver flat against a bolster taken from one of our armchairs. Beyond the bolster was a plaster bust of Napoleon which normally lived on top of a bookcase in the far corner.

Pons laughed and got up, dusting the knees of his trousers. Just indulging in a little amateur theatricals, Parker.”

I glanced down at the mess on the carpet, the rich crimson firelight glinting over the pale surface of the bust. To my astonishment I saw there was a small hole in one side of it and a distinct smell of burning.

“It looks as though your services will be in demand at the Lyceum, Pons, if this goes on,” I said somewhat tartly, noting that there was a hole drilled clean through the bolster.

My companion chuckled, his right hand softly stroking the lobe of his right ear.

“Touché, Parker. You are developing quite a pretty wit of late. I see I shall have to be on my mettle.”

He looked down ruefully at the bolster and the bust.

“But you are right in one respect. I fear my little drama will not be greatly appreciated by Mrs Johnson. If you had been but five minutes earlier you would have heard the muffled explosion.”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“Good heavens, Pons! You don’t mean to tell me you have actually fired that thing in here?”

My friend shook his head.

“Oh, I can assure you, Parker, there was little danger. I had carefully worked out the possible impact. The bullet has just penetrated the surface of the bust, the greater force of the blow having been taken by the cushion. That explains both the crushing impact of the wound, consistent with the unfortunate man having apparently shattered his head upon the stony ground, and the lack of any sound for people who were passing the edge of the Forest only a few hundred yards away. It also had another advantage in that there was no scorching of the wound which would have given the game away in short order.”

I put my medical case down on my armchair and my overcoat on top of it and drew nearer to the fire. I looked at Pons with rising irritation.

“I wish I knew what you were talking about.”

“I am sorry, Parker. I sometimes forget that you are not always au fait with my cases. I was merely conducting a little experiment in ballistics. Though the characteristics of a bullet striking plaster are different from that of flesh, I fancy my theory will stand up in court. Sufficiently, I trust, to put paid to the unspeakable activities of the abominable Mr Horace Mortiboys of Epping.”

His deep-set eyes looked so angry and vengeful at that moment that I was quite taken aback. Then he seemed to recollect himself and stirred as I spoke again.

“I did not realise, Pons. One of your cases, eh? I trust you have now brought it to a successful conclusion.”

“I think we may say so, my dear fellow. Come and sit near the fire. Lunch will be served in a quarter of an hour or so.”

“I must say I could do with it,” I returned. “Just give me a few moments to put my things away and wash my hands.”

When I returned to the sitting-room Pons had tidied the carpet, the bust was back in situ on the bookcase, the damaged side away from the viewer; and the rumpled bolster on one of the chairs. Pons had evidently returned the revolver to his bedroom for there was no sign of it. He sat in his own chair to one side of the fire indolently reading The Times as though he had not a thing in the world on his mind.

After a few minutes he put down the paper and turned his deep-set eyes on me.

“What do you know about Colonel Alistair McDonald, Parker?”

I glanced up from the fire in mild surprise.

“Not a thing, Pons,” I admitted. “Should I?”

My companion shook his head, a faint smile on his face.

“Your field is altogether too specialised, Parker. You have been missing something. Explorer, big-game hunter, stalker, collector of esoteric objects, he also has regrettable criminal tendencies which have made him a good deal of money. At the present time I should class him as the third most dangerous man in Europe.”

Solar Pons tented his slender fingers before him and stared broodingly into the fire.

“In fact he has twice tried to kill me, the most recent occasion being yesterday.”

“Good heavens, Pons! You cannot mean it?” I spluttered. Solar Pons shook his head.

“I wish I were not serious, Parker. A parcel came for me yesterday. If I had not been on my guard, I should not be sitting here talking to you now.”

He glanced over at his desk in the far corner.

Just take a look at that. But please do not touch the thing. I should burn it, by rights, but I am retaining the ingenious toy as possible evidence.”

I got up and crossed the room to stare down at the brown-paper parcel which sat on my friend’s blotter. It had been opened out and a strange wooden idol figure sat in the midst of it. It had a curiously shaped base, with a marked indentation in the front, obviously to fit the thumb of a person holding the image by the base. I saw now that there was a small steel needle protruding from the front of it.

“I do not understand, Pons,” I remarked, as I resumed my seat.

“It is simple, Parker,” Solar Pons commented. “I might have picked it up from the cardboard box but for the fact that I noted a minute hole in the shallow depression in front of the thing. I procured a pair of pliers with which to hold it and with the aid of a heavy ruler I applied pressure. The result was quite dramatic, the needle stabbing forward through the hole. After analysis I found that the needle, which is of the ordinary sewing variety, had been impregnated with a solution of curare, which I need not tell you is a deadly poison, which speedily produces paralysis and death.”

I gazed at Pons open-mouthed.

“But why should this Colonel McDonald wish to kill you, Pons? And how do you know he sent the idol?”

Solar Pons chuckled drily.

“It has all the hall-marks of the Colonel’s ingenious mind, Parker. The thing is entirely hand-made. The carving, the staining with red varnish, the glass-eyes, the skilful painting of the features, and the heavy spring-mechanism, typical of the skilled toy-maker, bear all the signs of the Colonel’s ingenuity. The parcel was post-marked Putney by the bye, so he and his agents are not far away.”

“I still do not understand, Pons.”

“Tut, Parker, the matter is simple enough. A few months ago I was instrumental in exposing a gross public swindle, involving a non-existent housing scheme on the Riviera. The company responsible was headed by puppets, of course, but I have no doubt the Colonel’s hand was behind the thing. He lives in Inverness, incidentally, and the intricate machinations of these schemes are peculiar to him. In fact I am informed by Scotland Yard that inquiries into the fraud may take two years or more, with no guarantee of conviction. The directors of the scheme are figureheads and the police have so far found no visible trace of McDonald in the affair. But I have no doubt my interference has rankled.”

Pons twisted down the corners of his mouth and looked mockingly over at the parcel in the far corner.

“Just peruse his entry in that current volume of Who’s Who, if you would be so good.”

I brought the weighty volume to my armchair and studied it. I soon found the item I wanted. McDonald’s entry was impressive indeed. He lived at Ardrossan Lodge near a small village about twenty miles from Inverness. I went down the article with increasing puzzlement.

“He is a scholar too, Pons.”

“Is he not, Parker.”

“Publications include ‘The Sphere and the Triangle’ (1914) and ‘The Dimensions of Ecstasy’ (1923),” I said.

Pons chuckled drily.

“Oh, yes, the Colonel has a great deal to him. ‘The Dimensions of Ecstasy’ indeed. He is as much at home among the shelves of the library and the higher philosophy as he is at a rough shoot or on one of the crags of his native heath.”

I put down the volume on the table.

“You intrigue me, Pons. This business is serious.”

Solar Pons looked at me sombrely.

“Serious indeed, Parker. It can only end one way or another. We have been conducting a struggle at long-distance for the past six years or so. I really must take up the challenge.”

I looked at him sharply.

“You have something in mind?”

“There is a matter in train which bears the unmistakable stamp of Master McDonald,” my friend went on. “I fancy he sent me the parcel because he wished to clear the decks before putting it in motion.”

His eyes were fixed somewhere up beyond me at the ceiling.

“I really would give a great deal to checkmate him.”

He broke off abruptly.

“Ah, there is Mrs Johnson’s motherly tread upon the stair. We will take up this matter again after lunch.”

2

My sick calls took me out again in the afternoon and it was not until the early evening that I once again set eyes on my friend. A thin fog was swirling about the streets and I was glad to get indoors. When I entered the sitting-room I found Pons in consultation with a tall, fair-haired girl of about twenty-five, whose pink cheeks and flashing eyes bespoke some degree of agitation.

“Ah, this is my friend and colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker,” said Pons, rising from his chair and effecting the introductions. “Allow me to present my client, Miss Jennifer Hayling of Wortley Hall, Norfolk, and Inverness.”

“Inverness, Pons!”

I could not resist an involuntary start and Miss Hayling paused in shaking hands, before favouring me with a brief smile.

“This is connected with Colonel McDonald, then, Pons?” I asked as I took off my overcoat and drew my chair up to the fire.

“Indeed it is, Dr Parker,” said the young lady indignantly, “though I cannot prove it. But a more thorough-going rascal it has never been my misfortune to encounter until now.”

I looked at her in surprise.

“I really must press upon you the necessity of telling your story again, Miss Hayling,” said Pons quickly. “That is, if we are to persuade the doctor to accompany us to Scotland for I certainly cannot do without him.”

My surprise grew.

“Scotland, Pons! Good heavens! It is a long way in such inclement weather.”

“It is indeed, Parker,” said my companion smoothly, “but it is vitally urgent that I travel there. It is a matter of life and death.”

I sat looking from one to the other for a long moment.

“I will certainly come, Pons, in that case. Though what my locum will say I cannot tell.”

“There will be time enough to make arrangements, Parker. We shall not need to depart until tomorrow.”

“Leave it to me,” I said, with a reassuring smile at Miss Hayling.

Our visitor, who was elegantly dressed in a well-cut overcoat with a fashionable fur collar, now resumed her seat at the fireside, removing her outer garment to reveal a full-fashioned figure clad in a thick jersey dress. On her head she wore a West End milliner’s version of what passes in the South for a Scottish lady’s tam-o-shanter with a knitted bobble.

The young lady smiled as though she had guessed what I was thinking.

“I have only just returned from Scotland, Dr Parker, and I like to give some token respect to the land of my adoption.”

“Certainly, Miss Hayling,” I returned. “I was thinking it most becoming.”

“You are extremely gallant this evening, Parker,” said Pons gravely. “But I fear these sartorial notations are coming between us and the young lady’s story.”

With a brief smile at both of us, our attractive visitor plunged into her tale without more ado.

“As I already told you in my letters, Mr Pons, I am an orphan, living mainly in the Norwich area. My mother was Scottish and the family once owned considerable estates near Inverness. During the time of my parents’ marriage they divided their time between Glen Affric and Norwich, where my father had business interests. Both my parents were killed in a tragic accident a little over a year ago.”

A cloud passed over her face and she paused, as though the recollection were painful to her.

“I am so sorry, Miss Hayling,” I mumbled, with a quick glance at Pons.

He sat with his brows knitted, as though concentrating fiercely, several sheets of paper, evidently his client’s letters, spread out on the table at his side. At the girl’s extended permission he lit his pipe and was soon contentedly wreathed in aromatic blue smoke.

“I would not have referred to it again except that Mr Pons seems to think the matter of some significance,” the girl resumed.

“It may be, Miss Hayling, it may be,” Solar Pons interjected. “There is a wealth of difference. Pray continue.”

With a shy smile in my direction, our visitor went on, “You would not, of course, know Glen Affric or the terrain thereabouts, but it is, as you might imagine, hilly, with steep winding roads, often little more than lanes. The road from the main gates of Glen Affric is extremely steep and winds down through rather forbidding pine forests. It is well enough in summer but in winter, especially during icy conditions, can be extremely dangerous.

“I had often told my parents to take the car and they usually did so but they were inordinately fond of driving about the neighbourhood in a pony and trap, as my father, who was not a Scot at all, loved to pose as a laird, which caused both him and my mother great amusement.”

The girl smiled reminiscently, as though she could see her dead parents’ images rising before her once again in the flesh and I must say I was touched at the warmth of her expression.

“The road turns at right angles across an old stone bridge, which spans a ravine through which a stream runs. It was there, just at the bridge entrance, that the accident happened. The shafts snapped on the turn, the pony went on, but both my parents and the vehicle crashed through the wooden guard-rail into the ravine below.”

Our visitor was silent as though re-living the horror of the moment and I broke the silence, tactfully, I thought.

“I see, Pons. In the wintry conditions, no doubt the horse slipped at the turn and the unwonted strain on the shafts broke the wood, thus precipitating the tragedy.”

“Perhaps, Parker,” said my companion softly, his eyes flashing me a discreet warning. “The point is that it was unusually mild spring weather at the onset of April last year and the road was firm and dry.”

I must have sat with my mouth open for a second or two and by that time the young lady had recovered herself.

“It was after my parents’ death, Mr Pons; some months in fact, when I had come back to Scotland and was going through their papers, that I found the letters from the Scottish Land Trust, signed by their President, Mungo Ferguson.”

“Mungo Ferguson,” said Pons through the thin banners of smoke, his voice soft and almost dreamy.

“Tell me about him again, Miss Hayling.”

“He is a loathsome creature, Mr Pons. A bully and a braggart. A great, red-bearded man who thinks he can ride roughshod over other people’s rights.”

Solar Pons smiled, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

“He did not ride roughshod over you at any rate, Miss Hayling,” he observed. “For you took a whip and showed him off the estate, did you not?”

The girl flushed and there were little sparks of amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Indeed I did, Mr Pons!” she said spiritedly, “and I believe I have adequately described the incident in my letters.”

“Good heavens, Miss Hayling!” I exclaimed. “And this is the brute we are up against?”

Solar Pons shook his head, smiling at me through the coils of smoke.

“Hardly, Parker. You have surely not forgotten our earlier conversation. Ferguson is merely the cloak for something far more sinister. Let us hear something of the letters, Miss Hay-ling. You did send me a sample and I have in fact already checked on the registration of the company in question. The Scottish Land Trust, with Ferguson as President was first registered something over eighteen months ago and has a paid-up capital of £100.”

I looked at Pons in surprise.

“That does not sound very impressive, Pons.”

Solar Pons chuckled drily.

“You have not seen their notepaper, Parker. That is impressive enough at any event.”

“Then you think the whole thing a swindle, Mr Pons?” said the girl impetuously. “They have offered a good price for the house and land.”

“Too good, though it is genuine enough, at any rate,” said my companion sombrely. “I think you would find the money forthcoming readily enough if you were to agree to their request.”

“But fifty thousand pounds, Mr Pons! The whole estate is not worth a fraction of that. The house is well enough but the rest is just 300 acres of woodland, with some coarse grazing. There is not even any shooting or a trout stream or anything of the sort.”

My astonishment must have shown on my face.

“Fifty thousand pounds, Pons?”

“Interesting, is it not, Parker. This is why Miss Hayling’s little problem intrigues me so. Have a look at this.”

My friend passed me an impressive, blue-tinted deckle-edged sheet of stationery, which had very elaborate headings in flowing script printed on it.

The legend, Scottish Land Trust, Registered Offices, Carnock House, Inverness, was followed by a list of directors whose names meant nothing to me. The letter, addressed to Miss Hayling’s parents, was an offer, couched in unctuous terms, of fifty thousand pounds sterling for the estate known as Glen Affric. It was dated more than a year earlier and signed by Mungo Ferguson. I passed it back to Pons with a non-committal grunt.

“We are rather running ahead of ourselves,” said he. “Just let me précis the situation. Mr and Mrs Hayling were made an astronomical offer for Glen Affric estate, which is worth only a fraction of that, about eighteen months ago. They refused, as they had a great affection for the place, which is nevertheless worthless from a commercial development point of view.

“Mungo Ferguson, the President, persisted with the offer, however, and said that the Trust wished to develop the property as a leisure and holiday centre and the site was the only place suitable for many miles around.”

“There may be something in that, Mr Pons,” the girl muttered, searching Pons’ face with attentive eyes.

“A short while after the last of these letters, Mr and Mrs Hayling died in the tragic accident with the pony and trap,”

Pons continued. “Following the funeral Miss Hayling returned to Norwich and the Scottish house, with a reduced staff of three, remained in her ownership. But about six months ago the Trust’s offers were repeated by letter, at the lady’s Norwich address. What could be the reason behind such persistence?”

“I have no idea, Pons.”

“Nevertheless,” my companion returned. “It raises a number of interesting possibilities. This company seems inordinately concerned with this piece of ground. However, it is something which cannot be fully appreciated without seeing the terrain.”

“You think the company genuine, Pons?”

Solar Pons tented his thin fingers before him.

“Oh, it is genuine enough so far as it goes, Parker. Miss Hayling, nothing if not a persistent young lady, has been to the Trust’s headquarters in Inverness. They have a proper office there, which is open at fixed hours on five days a week, though the one clerk employed there has little to do. But I am holding up Miss Hayling’s narrative. There are far more sinister overtones to come.”

“You have put the situation admirably, Mr Pons,” said the girl. “This was how things stood until I returned to live again in Scotland back in the autumn.”

“You had been called there by your old servants, had you not?”

“Yes indeed, Mr Pons. By Mr and Mrs McRae, steward and housekeeper respectively. They are the only staff now apart from Mackintosh, the outside man and gardener.”

“Something strange had happened, I understand.”

The girl nodded, her eyes worried.

“Strange enough, Mr Pons. After I had received McRae’s letter I thought I had better get the first available train.”

Solar Pons blew a little eddying plume of blue smoke up toward the ceiling of our sitting-room.

“It began with noises in the night, did it not?”

“That is so, Mr Pons. Neither Mr McRae or his wife are what you might call sensitive or over-imaginative people. They are, on the contrary, stolid, strong-minded and dependable. Mackintosh likewise.”

“The house is a lonely one, I understand?”

“You could say that. The nearest habitation is about five or six miles away but that is irrelevant as the property itself, in extensive grounds, is approached by a long private road and well screened by heavy belts of trees.”

“There were noises at first, you say.”

“Yes, Mr Pons. Odd scratches, as though someone were trying the shutters at dead of night. McRae got up and ran out, but though it was a fine moonlight night, saw nothing. Another time there were footsteps and after odd banging noises a window was found open, as though it had been forced. On yet another occasion Mackintosh found a set of heavy footmarks across a flower-bed after rain. They had obviously been made during the dead hours of the night, for they were not there the evening before.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Which brings us to the fire.”

“Yes, Mr Pons. Though not serious it might well have been. Some outhouses, which stand between the main house and the stable-block, caught fire. Fortunately, Mr and Mrs McRae together with Mackintosh, who lives in a nearby cottage, were able to contain the outbreak with a garden hose but two of the sheds were completely destroyed.”

I looked at my companion.

“An accident, Pons?”

The girl shook her head.

“They found a three-quarters empty petrol can near the scene of the fire. It was obviously deliberate. The police were called in but found nothing.”

Solar Pons blew out a little plume of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

“What do you make of that, Parker?”

“Why, coercion, Pons,” I said. “The Land Trust wants Miss Hayling’s property badly. Now they are putting on pressure to force her out.”

“Splendid, Parker,” said Solar Pons, a twinkle in his eye. “You really are improving all the time. Those are my thoughts exactly and though the conclusion is a trite and obvious one it appears to me that my training is beginning to bear fruit. The question is, what does the Land Trust really want? And why should anyone desire such a remote and isolated property, which has no obvious commercial value.”

“Exactly, Mr Pons,” put in Miss Hayling. “Farming is a depressed industry anyway and despite the Trust’s explanations, the one obvious use to which the land could be put is ruled out, because the estate is unsuitable for that purpose.

The timber might be of some value, if it could be cut and marketed, but even that qualification is doubtful.”

“There is more to come, Pons?” I asked.

“Oh, a deal, Parker, a deal. I must apologise for these constant interruptions, Miss Hayling, but such sifting and evaluation of points as they arise, together with the comments of my good friend the doctor here, are a valuable factor in refining the ratiocinative processes.”

There was a dry and humorous expression on Pons’ face as he spoke and I saw little sparks of humour dancing in the girl’s own eyes.

“Well, Mr Pons, as I have already informed you by letter, things got rapidly worse. I had no sooner been apprised of the fire when something even more serious occurred. Mackintosh, the gardener surprised someone in the shrubbery one dark evening a few days afterwards, and was attacked in consequence. He struck his head on a stone bordering the driveway as he fell and briefly lost consciousness.

“But he is a strong and vigorous man, fortunately, and came to no permanent harm. As soon as he was himself he roused the household, the police were called and a search made of the neighbourhood. But the terrain is hopeless as there are so many places of concealment and the perpetrator of this outrage was never found. On receipt of that news I immediately made my way from Norwich and took up residence at Glen Affric.”

“When even more serious events took place, Miss Hayling.”

“Indeed, Mr Pons. But not before being preceded by two letters, both signed by Mr Mungo Ferguson, and both repeating the original offer of the Land Trust.”

“You took no notice of them?”

“Of course not, Mr Pons. On these occasions I did not even bother to reply. But one afternoon, a fortnight ago, I had returned from a brisk walk on the hillside when I heard voices from the stable area. I found Mr McRae, my steward, having a fierce argument with a huge, red-bearded man dressed in riding clothes. He had come up in a dog-cart and the pony had been tied to the railings. McRae had found him wandering about the property uninvited, which had led to words. But he raised his hat civilly enough to me and introduced himself, asking for a private interview. I did not wish to invite him into the house and decided to keep McRae within earshot, so we walked a few yards away to talk.

“He introduced himself as Ferguson and again repeated his offer from the Land Trust and when I refused, somewhat vehemently, he became abusive. I think he had been drinking and it was then, in the course of the interview, that he made an improper suggestion.”

Miss Hayling paused and her cheeks were pink, her eyes gleaming with the recollection. Solar Pons’ own deep-set eyes turned on her sympathetically.

“An improper suggestion, Miss Hayling?”

“Yes, sir. It was one no lady could repeat to a gentleman. I am afraid I lost my temper completely. Ferguson was holding a riding crop loosely in his hand as we talked and I seized it and beat him about the head and shoulders with it. He was so surprised that he retreated rapidly. I threw the whip after him, he got quickly up into his trap and with many curses drove rapidly off and good riddance to him.”

“Well done, my dear young lady,” I could not resist saying and Solar Pons looked at the pair of us, a slight smile playing around his lips.

“And what did McRae do all this time?”

“He was as astonished as Ferguson, Mr Pons. But there was no doubt he approved.”

“Which brings us to three days ago.”

“That is correct, Mr Pons. I felt thirsty after retiring to my room and came down to Mrs McRae’s kitchen to get a glass of milk. It was late — or what passes for late in the Highlands — just turned half-past eleven, and I was passing a side-door to get to the kitchen when I heard a sound outside. There was only a dim light burning in the far hallway and the rest of the building was in darkness.

“I distinctly heard a foot grate on the stone step outside and then the iron door-latch was lifted once or twice as though someone was testing to see whether it was locked. I can tell you, Mr Pons, it was somewhat unnerving at that hour of night in such a lonely place to hear and see such a thing.”

“I can well imagine, Miss Hayling. You called out, I believe?”

“I shouted, ‘Who is there?’, more to keep my courage up than anything else. The latch was abruptly released and I heard the sound of hurried footsteps on the flagged path outside. I put on the outside porch light and went out to see who it was, but there was nothing.”

“That was a brave thing,” I said.

“But extremely unwise, Parker,” Solar Pons admonished. And to the girl.

“You did nothing further that night?”

“No, Mr Pons. I re-locked the door, got my milk and went to bed. But I was much troubled in my mind though I did not mention the matter to Mr and Mrs McRae. AU the staff had been greatly disturbed by these incidents and I had no wish to lose their services. Which brings me to yesterday afternoon.”

Pons’ client paused as though recollecting her thoughts and went on in a low, even voice.

“I had been out for a walk after lunch and my ramble had taken me to the northern portion of the estate, which abuts Glen Affric, a wild and lonely place, bordered by one of our local mountains of the same name. It was cold, grey and overcast and I had heard shooting earlier.”

“Surely it is not the season?” I said.

Miss Hayling shook her head.

“No, but there are many local people who shoot rabbits and other small creatures for the pot during the winter months, so I took no particular notice. I was standing on the path, looking up the glen, taking in the romantic charm of the scene and thinking about nothing in particular when there came another shot, much closer this time. Mr Pons, it was aimed at me and the bullet passed through the bushes only four or five feet from my head!”

3

There was a long silence which I felt incumbent upon myself to break.

“Good heavens! This is serious indeed!”

“Is it not, Parker,” said Pons, rubbing his thin fingers together, suppressed energy evident in every line of his frame. “What did you do next?”

“I am afraid I panicked, Mr Pons. I took to my heels down the path and did not rest until I was safe in the house again.” Solar Pons nodded sombrely.

“You have done wisely, Miss Hayling. This is a black business. That shot was undoubtedly intended for you.”

“But what does it all mean, Mr Pons?”

“That is what I intend to find out. I have formed tentative theories but must wait until we are upon the ground before testing them. That was when you sent me the telegram?”

“Yes, Mr Pons. Some weeks earlier I had remembered my father once speaking of you in connection with some case you had solved. It was then I first wrote you and apprised you of the situation and our ensuing correspondence has been the only thing which has strengthened my resolve in this business. I had Mackintosh get the trap and take the telegram into the village post office for transmission.”

“Which was undoubtedly known to McDonald within the hour. He would know you had an interview at Praed Street this afternoon. You saw nobody when you took the London train last night?”

His sharp eyes held the girl’s transfixed.

She shook her head worriedly.

“No, Mr Pons. Though I had a strange feeling that I was followed all the way from Scotland.”

“You undoubtedly have been. We must be on our guard.” Solar Pons puffed furiously at his pipe, the aromatic blue clouds surrounding him in thick whorls.

“You haven’t told us about Colonel McDonald, Miss Hayling,” I said.

“I am sorry, Parker. It is my fault. I am au fait with the story and had forgotten it was quite new to you.”

“I went to the station that evening, Mr Pons, as I told you. I had to pass the Affric Arms to get to the forecourt. There is a small private bar near the pavement and the window was uncurtained. I glanced in as I went by. Mackintosh was carrying my luggage and had noticed nothing but I could see Ferguson inside, in deep conversation with a man in front of a roaring fire. There was no mistaking him, Mr Pons. The flaming red hair drew my attention to him. The man with him glanced up though I am convinced he could not see me at the window as it was dark in the street. It was undoubtedly Colonel McDonald.”

“You know him?” I said.

“Of course, Dr Parker. Everyone in Inverness-shire knows the Colonel. He is a celebrated, not to say notorious figure. I must say I was alarmed to see him in such intimate circumstances with such an odious person as Ferguson.”

“Why was that, Miss Hayling?”

“Somewhat obviously, Mr Pons, I immediately gained the impression, rightly or wrongly, that he and Ferguson were in collaboration. Or, not to put too fine a point on it, that Ferguson was acting as McDonald’s agent in putting pressure on my family to get our estate.”

“Have you or your family ever had any personal contact with the Colonel, Miss Hayling.”

“So far as my parents are concerned, not that I am aware of. In my own case I have never met the man, though I have read a good deal about him, mostly in the financial press.”

“And you do not like what you read?”

“No, Mr Pons. He is certainly not a sympathetic figure.”

“I see.”

Pons was silent for a moment, his head resting on his breast, his eyes half-closed, as though deep in thought.

“And you have no idea why such a man as Colonel McDonald would have an interest in a small estate like Glen Affric?” Our visitor shook her head.

“No, Mr Pons.”

“Very well, Miss Hayling. You have done well to come to me. There is little point in further discussion. However, I should be very careful while you are in London. Dr Parker will accompany you back to your hotel and I want your promise to stay there until we come to fetch you tomorrow. I believe there is a midday train from King’s Cross, is there not?”

“That is correct, Mr Pons. But you do not believe I am in any danger here in London?”

“It is as well to be on our guard, my dear young lady. I would like your promise, if you please.”

“You have it, Mr Pons.”

The girl got up from her chair, her eyes shining. We both rose also.

“Thank you so much, gentlemen. I feel very much better already.”

“I can promise nothing except that I will exert my best endeavours in your interests, Miss Hayling.”

“One could not ask for more, Mr Pons.”

“If you will just wait a moment while I get my coat, we will be off,” I said.

The girl was silent as we took a taxi to her hotel, a comfortable, middle-class establishment conveniently situated near King’s Cross Station, but she reiterated her promise to remain in her room before we parted. She was to be ready at a quarter past eleven the following morning when we were due to pick her up by taxi. I saw her into the hotel and waited until she had locked herself within her room. She would dine in the hotel restaurant and would have no need to go out again until we caught the express north.

When I returned to 7B an hour later I found Pons sprawled in his armchair in front of the fire in a brown study. Judging by the swathes of dense smoke which filled the room he had been smoking furiously.

“Well, Parker,” he observed on my entry. “What is your opinion of Miss Hayling and her problem?”

“A brave young lady, Pons,” I answered, laying down my overcoat and thankfully seating myself opposite him in my favourite armchair in front of the fire.

“But a dark and difficult business. Though it seems obvious that the crude and murderous activities of the Scottish Land Trust were directed toward the purpose of obtaining Miss Hayling’s estate, I confess I cannot see the point. From what both you and she tell me it has no possible commercial value.”

Pons regarded me through the smoke with very bright eyes.

“You have hit it, Parker. I have already been to Companies House and set my own inquiries afoot. The Trust has ostensibly been set up for the innocuous purpose of recreation and leisure, as they have already suggested to Miss Hayling. They have no need to be more specific than that.”

“You think McDonald owns the company and has set it up for some other purpose?”

“There is no doubt about it, Parker. The scheme bears all the traces of his ferocious methods, though his normal native cunning seems to have deserted him. These crude and blunt tactics with Miss Hayling are not typical of him.”

“Perhaps the man Mungo Ferguson whom he appears to be using as his agent…”

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. He may overstep himself. A scoundrel like McDonald has to use the tools to hand and following some of his recent experiences his more genteel and respectable associates may well have been frightened off.”

He smoked on in silence for a few more minutes, while I went to the telephone to let my locum know of the situation. When I had arranged for my leave of absence, I returned to the warmth of the sitting-room to find him immersed in a gazetteer and large-scale maps of Scotland which he was studying intently with the aid of a powerful magnifying glass. As soon as I reappeared he swept everything briskly off the table.

“I must apologise for monopolising our quarters with my little problems. We will leave it over until the morrow. In the meantime if you would be good enough to ring for supper, I would be greatly obliged.”

4

The weather was, if anything, even more inclement when we set off next day. Though there was no rain an acrid fog hung about the capital which gave the streets a deceptively mild air but the biting cold came through, catching one unawares, so that I had to catch my breath and draw the collar of my heavy overcoat about me. We carried only valises so it was only a moment to engage a cab and with the good Mrs Johnson braving the elements to see us off from the top of the steps we had shortly collected Miss Hayling and were en route to King’s Cross.

We had engaged a first-class compartment to ourselves and were soon speeding through the suburbs, the sun attempting to break through the iron-grey clouds which hung over the city. Once north of Welwyn the great locomotive got into its stride and the only indication of our immense speed was the rapid passage of the shadows of the telegraph poles across the carriage windows.

“There is something almost mystical about a great machine,” Pons observed. “And the Scotsman is such a locomotive even in an age which has grown blasé over steam power. Eh, Miss Hayling?”

“You are certainly right, Mr Pons,” said the girl.

She looked very becoming today in a smart tailored suit. She had put her overcoat and luggage on the rack and still wore the bobbled hat, which gave the carriage something of the atmosphere of our destination.

The trip passed uneventfully; we took lunch and high tea in the dining car and long before darkness fell we were well on our way. Pons spent much of the time studying his maps and occasionally scribbling notes, while I wracked my brains over The Times crossword, which I finally threw down in disgust.

“It is digit, Parker,” Solar Pons observed with a smile.

“Eigh, Pons?”

“The answer to nine across, my dear fellow. I solved it almost immediately but refrained from filling it in as I did not want to spoil the problem for you.”

“You have not done that, Pons,” I observed grimly, picking up the paper and scanning the clues. It seemed blindingly simple once my companion had pointed it out and I was conscious of the fair girl’s quiet amusement as I somewhat savagely inked the answer in.

I had noticed, as the journey progressed, that my companion, though apparently engrossed in his calculations, had cast sharp glances about him from time to time, particularly at people passing the door of the compartment. Now I was astonished to see him suddenly leap to his feet. We had in fact drawn the blinds as dusk fell, in order to ensure privacy, and Pons strode to the door and swiftly slid it open. A small man dressed in a salt and pepper suit with a bow-tie slid into the compartment with a muffled exclamation.

“Dear me,” said Solar Pons gently, as he closed his hand over the elbow of the little man, ostensibly to steady him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the latter stammered, blinking about him.

“It is rather a squeeze in the corridor here.”

“It is rather a squeeze in here also,” said Solar Pons, clamping his fingers on the other’s arm and propelling him back into the passageway. The fellow howled with pain and tears ran down from beneath his horn-rimmed spectacles.

“You may tell your master that we are en route to Scotland,” said Pons crisply. “That will save you a good deal of time and trouble. You may also add — though that is expecting rather too much of human nature — that you are doing your job extremely incompetently. There is an art to observing people without being noticed and you have not yet mastered it.”

He slammed the door in the other’s face and resumed his seat with a dry chuckle, oblivious of my astonishment and that of Miss Hayling.

“What on earth was that about, Pons?” I asked.

“That little man was obviously one of Colonel McDonald’s agents,” he observed soberly. “But, as I indicated, he is not very good at his job. I have noticed him no less than a dozen times during the day, giving our compartment an extremely close degree of attention. I happened to observe that the door had been slid back an inch or so, though I secured it firmly after tea. He was obviously listening in the corridor.”

“Good heavens, Pons,” I said. “This is serious. So we are expected at Glen Affric?”

“Of course, Parker,” my companion said calmly. “We would have been in any case. I would have expected little less of the Colonel. He is leaving nothing to chance. You forget he has already made several attempts to remove me from his sphere of influence.”

He pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his left ear.

“The question is whether he will try anything before we reach our destination.”

He turned to the girl.

“I take it we shall be breaking our journey in Edinburgh this evening?”

“Oh, certainly, Mr Pons. I took the precaution of booking rooms at one of the best hotels as soon as I left Dr Parker last night.”

“Hmm.”

Pons continued to look grave.

“We must be on our guard this evening, that is all. I think we must stay indoors tonight, Parker. An accident before we reached Glen Affric would suit McDonald’s purposes nicely. But I do not think even he would be fool-hardy enough to try anything on a crowded train in broad daylight tomorrow.”

And he immersed himself in his documents until we had arrived at our destination. I noticed his eyes were extremely watchful and alert as we alighted in the great, steam-filled vault of Waverley Station. He chuckled as the little man of the dramatic interview scuttled away.

“I fancy we have seen the last of him at least, Parker.”

The evening was well advanced by this time and the air raw and damp and he hurried us out to the taxi-rank. In a few moments we were bowling swiftly down Princes Street to the elegant, not to say luxurious hotel Miss Hayling had engaged for us.

Pons glanced back through the rear window several times but as far as I could make out we were not being followed by any other vehicle. As though he could read my thoughts, Pons nodded grimly and put his empty pipe between his teeth.

“Unless I miss my guess, Parker, McDonald would know our destination in advance. He has a big organisation.”

“Then why would he set someone to watch us on the train, Pons?”

“He wants to make sure we three have arrived at Waverley. Once we are in the city he can pick us up again without much trouble.”

The girl shivered suddenly, though it was warm in the interior of the cab. We were screened from the driver by a heavy sheet of glass and I had already noted that Pons had given the man a very careful scrutiny, being at some pains not to choose the first vehicle in the station-rank.

“I am afraid I have involved you in a very black business, Mr Pons. I would never forgive myself for leading others into danger if something dreadful were to happen.”

Solar Pons’ eyes rested reflectively on the girl’s face, now lit, now dark as the lights from shops in the great thoroughfare glanced across her expressive features.

“Do not disturb yourself, Miss Hayling,” he said, solicitude in his tone. “You are forgetting I am operating within my own milieu. The danger and excitement of the chase are like meat and drink to me and the Colonel is an opponent worthy of my steel. My only concern was for your welfare.”

The girl smiled winningly.

“Oh, I am safe enough in your company, Mr Pons,” she said confidently. “I feel so much better already.”

By this time the cab was crunching into the hotel forecourt and the discreet lights of the vestibule were beginning to compose themselves from the thin mist which lay about the city. Gas-lamps bloomed in the square and marched in stately rows along Princes Street until they were lost in the hazy shimmer. At any other time such a noble prospect would have gladdened my heart but our errand and the mortal danger in which Pons’ young client stood filled my mind with foreboding.

We lost no time in paying off the cab and while the luggage was being carried in, we hurried the girl through into the warm luxuriance of the hotel lobby.

The evening passed without incident. After we had registered and taken possession of our respective rooms, we dined a trois at a side-table in the great elegant Edwardian restaurant with its crystal chandeliers and afterward took coffee in a cavernous smoking-room which had an enormous fire of logs blazing in its huge stone fireplace. Pons sat slightly apart from us, his eyes apparently directed toward the dimly-glimpsed facade of the square through the fog which seemed to have thickened at the long windows hung with filmy gauze. For some reason the hotel servants had not pulled to the thick velvet curtains in here but even as I noted the fact an elderly man in dark blue livery appeared to make a solemn, stately ritual of the drawing.

Pons swilled the whisky round moodily in his glass and turned toward me as the servant withdrew. The girl was facing away from us as the coffee-room waiter poured her another cup from the silver-plated pot and Pons lowered his voice as he spoke.

“I am worried about the young lady’s safety, Parker. I am convinced the Colonel will make some attempt against her before we reach our destination. With her removal goes the last obstacle to him obtaining her property. You brought your revolver, as I requested?”

“Certainly, Pons,” I replied. “It is securely packed in my luggage. Do you wish me to stand guard tonight outside the young lady’s room?”

Pons glanced at me sharply and then gave me an affectionate smile.

“Hardly that, Parker, though it is good of you to discount your comfort in such a manner. I do not think the danger will manifest itself directly and Miss Hayling is safe enough among such surroundings. But there are a number of ways in which she may be approached.”

I looked round quickly at the coffee-room waiter, who was exchanging a few commonplaces with Pons’ client.

“Good heavens, Pons. Not through her food and drink, surely?”

Solar Pons shook his head, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the old waiter.

“I hardly think so, Parker. It would be far too difficult for a stranger to penetrate the kitchen of such a hotel as this. And then there would be the difficulty of ascertaining which dish was intended for which guest. I fancy such an approach as I envisage would come from one of two sources. A fellow guest, perhaps…?”

He broke off as if something had occurred to him, and then listened intently to the girl’s explanations of our intended travel arrangements for the morrow. We would travel by train to Inverness, catching the ten o’clock fast and the gardener from the estate would meet us at Inverness with a pony and trap.

“That seems perfectly satisfactory, Pons,” I said.

“As far as it goes, Parker,” he said slowly. “Frankly, I do not like this weather and the thicker it is likely to get the farther north we go, particularly among the mountains.”

“There is little we can do about it,” I returned.

He shook his head.

“You are quite right, Parker. But a wise general makes his dispositions accordingly, taking account of both the weather and the movements of the enemy.”

The girl turned very bright eyes on my companion.

“The danger is not past then, Mr Pons?”

“Not yet, Miss Hayling. I have no wish to alarm you, but we must still remain on our guard. I would like your promise that you will lock your room door tonight and not stir from it, except for any personal request from myself or Dr Parker.”

Miss Hayling looked puzzled.

“I am not even to open to the hotel servants?”

Pons shook his head.

“Not even for the servants. In such an event please telephone to my room and I will come along. We will attend your room at eight o’clock tomorrow morning to escort you to breakfast.”

The girl rose.

“Very well, Mr Pons. Goodnight.”

When I had returned from seeing Miss Hayling to her room I found Pons sprawled in the smoking-room chair, a hazy cloud of smoke about him, a re-filled whisky glass at his elbow.

“Well, I think that about takes care of everything, Pons,” I said with satisfaction.

My companion turned sombre eyes to me.

“We shall see, Parker, we shall see,” he said slowly.

And he picked up his whisky glass again.

5

I was up betimes in the morning but early as I was, passing through the hotel lobby to fetch a newspaper, I was astonished to see Pons coming in from the open air. It was a bitterly cold day and mist had quite closed in the square outside and beads of gleaming moisture were stippling my friend’s overcoat as he strode in through the main entrance.

“What on earth, Pons…” I began, when he rudely interrupted me.

“I have just been outside reconnoitring, Parker. A brief conversation with the Scottish taxi-driver, for example, is extremely rewarding. They do not often miss much of importance which takes place outside a large hotel.”

“And what did you learn, Pons?”

“Very little, Parker. There has been nothing out of the ordinary. Which has me worried.”

“Worried, Pons?”

Solar Pons’ lean face was furrowed with concentration. He shook his head toward the misty street outside the vast glass doors.

“I shall not breathe easily until Miss Hayling is once again safe within her own four walls.”

“Why do you think, if danger does threaten, that she was not molested on her way down to see us?”

“Because, Parker, it was not in the Colonel’s interests to do anything precipitate. And the girl’s telegram may have caught him off balance. Now that we are in the field he has nothing to lose.”

He glanced up at the clock.

“Ah, it is five to eight. We have just time to collect Miss Hayling for breakfast.”

We were ascending the great ornamental staircase that led to the upper floors when the hotel porter came down and met us at a turn in the stair. His face brightened.

“Ah, Mr Pons, I could not find you. I have just delivered the parcel to Miss Hayling’s room. She would not open at first until she had identified my voice.”

I had never seen such a change as that which came over Pons’ face.

“Parcel? What parcel?”

“Why, sir, the parcel for Miss Hayling which came by special messenger a few minutes ago.”

“And you have just delivered it to her?”

My friend did not wait for the porter’s answer. He was electrified into action.

“Come, Parker! We have not a moment to lose!”

He took the stairs two at a time so that I was hard put to keep up with him. A few seconds later he was beating a tattoo at the girl’s door.

“Miss Hayling! It is imperative that you do not open the packet which has just been delivered.”

“Oh, Mr Pons. What is the matter?”

To our relief there came the grating of the key in the lock and the surprised face of the girl appeared in the opening of the door. Pons unceremoniously brushed by her and strode into the room, every line of his body denoting energy and purpose.

“Ah, there we are!”

I crossed quickly to Pons’ side and looked at the small sandalwood box which the girl had set down on a side table. It bore a plain white label with Miss Hayling’s name and hotel inked on it. It was about six inches square and had small holes drilled in the sides. I bent down close to it and it may have been my imagination but I sensed I could hear a faint rustling noise from inside.

Pons turned back to his client.

“You have made no attempt to open it?”

The fair girl shook her head.

“No, Mr Pons. I would not even let the porter in at first, as I remembered what you had told me.”

“Excellent!”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together. The girl’s eyes opened in surprise and she turned white.

“You do not think there is any danger in that packet?”

“We shall see, Miss Hayling. In the meantime I suggest you descend to the dining room and order breakfast. We will join you in a few minutes.”

I could see by the spirited look in the girl’s eyes that she was inclined to argue but the tense expression on Pons’ face silenced her. She left us quickly and I stood in the open door of the room until she had descended the stairs.

When I turned back I could not see Pons for a moment and then I heard him call out from the adjoining bathroom.

“Just come in here for a moment will you, my dear fellow.” I found Pons with his sleeves rolled up, a grim look on his face. He started running hot water into the bath.

“What on earth are you up to, Pons?”

“I do not like cruelty to living creatures, Parker, but I fancy there is something abominable in this box. As I have no wish to risk our lives to indulge Colonel McDonald’s sadistic instincts I intend to scald and drown whatever is within. There is no doubt it is a living creature for why otherwise would the air-holes be there.”

“We do not even know it came from McDonald, Pons.” Solar Pons shook his head with a grim smile, reaching out one lean arm to turn off the tap.

“No-one knew we were at this hotel, Parker. I have Miss Hayling’s word for that. It bears all the stamp of McDonald’s work. We know we are under surveillance by his emissaries. Why the special box and the special messenger. just pass me that long-handled scrubbing brush, if you please.”

I did as he suggested and watched in silence as he dropped the box swiftly into the boiling water, holding it under with the brush. There were some noises coming from it now but Pons swiftly blotted them out by turning on the taps. He held the box under the surging water for perhaps a minute his face grim and tense.

“Now, my dear Parker,” he said eventually, pulling out the drain-plug with the head of the brush. “We have need of your specialised knowledge, if you please.”

He was searching around the bathroom as he spoke and grunted as he came across a thin metal spanner at the head of the bath. He held it in his hand, waiting as the last of the water swirled down the drain.

“Let me do it, Parker. We do not want any accidents.”

I held the box, while he levered up the lid. There was paper inside, which had been made soggy with water, and we waited a moment to allow it to drain away. Cautiously, Pons parted it with the end of the spanner, his face concentrated and absorbed.

“There is no danger any more, Parker, I fancy.”

I stood looking sickly down at the monstrous, bloated thing which was curled in death at the bottom of the box. It resembled nothing so much as a huddled mass of brownish-black fur, though I knew it was the biggest spider I had ever seen in my life.

“What on earth is it, Pons?”

“You may well ask, Parker. A tarantula. One of the most deadly creatures known to man. One bite could have been fatal, had Miss Hayling been unwise enough to open the box.”

“Good heavens, Pons! I thought they inhabited only tropical climates.”

Pons shook his head, his face set like stone.

“They are found mainly in Southern Europe, Parker. But you are right. This could not have existed long in a place like Edinburgh in January. Hence the warm packing. McDonald is a specialist in such things. I hear on good authority that he has an esoteric private zoo at his Scottish estate.”

“Then this came from there, Pons?”

“Undoubtedly, Parker.”

My companion became brisk in his manner. He got up, unrolled his sleeves and resumed his jacket. Carefully, he eased the sodden mass out of the box and swirled it down the drain-hole of the bath. He had to force it through the grille with the end of the spanner. He let the water run for a minute or two, his eyes expressing his anger. When he had cleaned the bath to his satisfaction he replaced the spanner and the long-handled brush and rinsed his hands thoughtfully. Then he turned to me.

“Miss Hayling must know nothing of this, Parker. She is worried enough already.”

“But what are you going to tell her?”

There were little glints of amusement in my companion’s eyes now.

“I shall think of something, Parker. Have I your word?” “You may rely upon it, Pons.”

“Good. And now, I think we have already done a good morning’s work. It is more than time to join Miss Hayling for breakfast.”

6

The train shuddered and came to a halt. Thin mist swirled about the platform. I huddled more deeply into my overcoat and handed out the cases to Pons after he had assisted Miss Hayling from the carriage.

“So this is Inverness, Pons?”

“It would appear so, Parker, if one can rely upon the station signboards. I believe you said you had a trap waiting, Miss Hayling?”

“There should be one, Mr Pons. I specifically ordered Mackintosh to be here. Ah, there he is!”

A tall, bearded man with a ruddy, good-humoured face was materialising through the groups of passengers who hurried toward the station exits. Carriage doors were slamming, there was the hiss of steam and all the bustle that I invariably associate with travel. Mackintosh, who wore a heavy taped tartan overcoat gave Miss Hayling a respectful salute and took our cases, looking curiously at Pons and myself.

“This is Mr Solar Pons and Dr Lyndon Parker,” she explained. “They have come to help us in our problems.”

“You are welcome indeed, gentlemen,” said the gardener in a rich, smooth burr.

He extended a strong hand to Pons and myself.

“I have the trap just outside here, Miss.”

We handed the young lady through the gate of the smart equipage drawn by a sturdy cob and Pons and I settled ourselves down opposite her while Mackintosh stowed the baggage. Then the gardener took his seat at the reins as we busied ourselves enveloping ourselves in the thick travelling rugs provided.

As soon as we had left the town the mist seemed to encroach more strongly and the cold bit to the bone. Pons had been extremely alert all the time we were at the station and in the inhabited streets of Inverness and I noticed that the girl always walked between the two of us, so that we shielded her on either side. But now that we were on the country road that wound up between frowning shoulders of hill, Pons relaxed somewhat and sat leaning forward, a thin plume of smoke from his pipe billowing over his shoulder to mingle with the mist, his lean, aquiline features brooding and heavy with thought.

The atmosphere into which we were going obtruded itself more and more and was not conducive to conversation, so we travelled in silence, the gardener Mackintosh skilfully handling the reins, the sure-footed cob sturdily breasting the rises with its heavy load. We were still going in a northerly direction, despite the twisting and turning of the undulating road and it was soon obvious that we were straying into strange and lonely country.

Not that we could see much of it for the mist clung clammily to tree and hedgerow; but beyond the white blanket, which occasionally drew aside momentarily in currents of air, I could see bleak pine forests and the shaggy shoulders of mountain. The road itself dipped and fell so that Mackintosh eased the cob back to a walk and we jolted on through the damp, bitterly cold winter morning, each of us lost in his or her own thoughts.

Only once was there a change in the landscape and that was when another momentary break in the mist showed us the dark, sullen surface of a large black lake or loch which lay in a vast hollow beyond a fringe of trees to the right of the road. In response to my interrogatory look, Miss Hayling broke the long silence.

“Loch Affric,” she said. “We shall not be much longer before we arrive at our destination.”

“It is indeed a remote spot,” I ventured.

The girl gave a wry smile, her eyes fixed beyond our little group in the trap, as though she could penetrate the mist which had again descended, blotting out the dark and brooding aspect of the loch.

“Just wait until you have seen the estate, Dr Parker. Then will you and Mr Pons fully appreciate the situation in which I found myself.”

Pons nodded sombrely, his pipe glowing cheerfully as he shovelled smoke out over his shoulder at a furious rate. But I noticed that his eyes were stabbing glances all around and his whole attitude reminded me of a terrier or game dog whose every sense was attuned to this strange and bizarre atmosphere into which every beat of the horse’s hooves was leading us.

The land by now was excessively hilly and the lonely road wound crazily this way and that, bordered by dark plantations of firs and pines so that it was inexpressibly gloomy. I felt my own heart becoming oppressed by the surroundings and marvelled at the girl and her family choosing to make their dwelling in this outlandish place.

As though he could read my thoughts Pons observed to the girl, “Tell me, Miss Hayling, this country, as you have already told us, is almost impossible for farming. It looks equally forbidding for leisure pursuits.”

“That is correct, Mr Pons,” said our hostess earnestly. “Now that you see it for yourself I am sure you will agree the notion is quite preposterous. There is some fishing, certainly a little shooting but hereabouts forestry with some grazing is about the only possibility.”

Pons nodded, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe.

“This Colonel McDonald, Miss Hayling. Do his estates adjoin yours in any way?”

Mackintosh turned round in his seat at mention of McDonald and I saw him and the young lady exchange a long look. The latter nodded vigorously.

“Oh, yes indeed, Mr Pons. You might almost say we are encircled by his property.”

Pons’ eyes flashed beneath the brim of his hat as he glanced across at me.

“That is extremely interesting, Miss Hayling, and could explain many things.”

“I fail to see, Pons…” I began when we were interrupted by a lurching movement of the trap and Mackintosh applied the brake. I saw that we were travelling down a steep hill into a valley so deep that it appeared to be nothing more than a vast bowl half-filled with mist.

“This is the river hereabouts, Mr Pons,” said the girl. “It is a gloomy place, I am afraid.”

I hung on to the rail at the side of the cart and prayed that nothing would happen to the brakes as the cob was having some difficulty in keeping its feet. A few moments later Pons and I, by tacit consent and without speaking descended, and Pons went to take the horse’s head. I walked with him and we proceeded like this for some way. It was indeed an awe-inspiring place and we seemed to be descending an interminable distance down the narrow, twisting road.

Presently the slope eased out and Mackintosh brought the cob to a halt to give him a rest. He slipped down to give the beast a knob of sugar.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “The hill is a very difficult place and yon slope the other side is little different.”

As a breath of wind slightly cleared the mist I saw that we were almost on to a right-angle turn leading over a large rustic bridge, which had white-painted railings protecting the edges. Pons and I walked across and after a short while the trap followed. Pons paused at the far edge and rested his two hands on the edge of the palings. Far away and below us, apparently at a vast distance, came the rushing of water. The trap was now level with us and Mackintosh drew it up obediently. Pons turned to Miss Hayling.

“I am sorry to revive sad memories, Miss Hayling, but is this the spot where your parents met their fatal accident?”

The girl shivered, though not with cold, and a dark shadow passed across her face.

“That is so, Mr Pons. Just a little farther along. The carriage is still down there.”

Pons’ languid air was transformed.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, Mr Pons, the place is so steep and the slopes either side so precipitous that it still rests on the bed of the stream.” “Indeed.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were glittering with excitement and he puffed smoke furiously from his pipe.

“So there was no evidence about the carriage produced at the inquest?”

“I do not quite follow you, Mr Pons.”

“No matter, my dear young lady. If you will excuse me for a few minutes I will just satisfy my curiosity.”

To my astonishment he walked a little farther over the bridge, skirted the railing where it rejoined the road at another steep turn and disappeared into the dark, misty woodlands which led down to the invisible stream below. For some while I could hear the swishing of his shoes among the leaves and then they died out in the noise of the river. Mackintosh sat politely, his eyes in front of him, though I could sense he was as astonished as the rest of us. In the event more than a quarter of an hour had passed before Pons reappeared, dusting himself down absently.

“You will forgive me, I am sure, Miss Hayling, but I always like to see things for myself.”

“And what did you see, Pons?” I asked as we re-seated ourselves in the trap.

“Oh, the vehicle is there all right, Parker. The stream is quite shallow and I could see it clearly through the dark water. We can have it up, if necessary.”

“Have it up, Pons?”

Solar Pons nodded but further conversation was again interrupted by the necessity of descending once more as the way again became extremely steep and dangerous, leading upward eventually from the other side of the bridge toward the estate of Glen Affric. We passed two lichen-encrusted gate-posts surmounted by stone heraldic griffins and were then on a sort of plateau which contained the park. Miss Hayling pointed off to the right, where the blank white wall of mist skirted the driveway.

“In good weather one has an excellent view of our local mountain, Ben Affric, in that direction, gentlemen.”

“Indeed.”

Pons looked musingly about him but it was obvious that even had the air been clear his thoughts were far away and absorbed with calculations that were obscure to me. The road led steeply up the drive which wound between a gloomy avenue of trees, now dank and dripping moisture in the bitingly cold air. Twice Pons glanced back behind him and I thought at first he feared we were followed but then realised he was reconstructing in his mind the tragic scene as the late Mr and Mrs Hayling’s trap bowled down that steep hill and through the main gates for the last time.

At length we came up through a dark, almost threatening mass of rhododendron and evergreen shrubbery into a gravelled concourse beyond which lay the long, low granite mass of the house. With its yellowed walls and lichen; the heraldic devices repeated on stone shields below the turret-like roofs; and the Gothic stable-block beyond, it was a forbidding sight and my heart sank at the lonely and oppressive atmosphere of the place, lost in these dank and dripping pine woods.

But Pons sprang alertly down to assist the lady, merely observing, “You will note, Parker, that Miss Hayling has spoken correctly. The estate is the only flat land for miles around. I commend that factor to you.”

“I cannot see its significance, Pons,” I confessed.

But my companion had already turned to the massive figure of Mackintosh as his client hurried toward the front steps of the house.

“I should like to have that trap up from the stream-bed by tomorrow, Mackintosh, if it is at all possible.”

The gardener scratched his head, looking thoughtfully at the horse which was staring wistfully toward the stable-block.

“Well, sir, it would be possible if you are really determined on it.”

“I am so determined,” said Solar Pons.

The grave eyes were appraising my companion now.

“Well, sir, if it is to help Miss Hayling, I would do anything for the lady. We have a tenant who farms a few acres just below here. In fact there are two farmers who manage to scrape some sort of a living from the skirts of our land. If he and his boy are not too busy we might try to get it up.”

“I would be obliged. It will not be necessary to recover the equipage, merely to raise it from the water in order that I may make a brief examination.”

“It shall be done, sir.”

Mackintosh raised his whip in salute and rattled off to the stables at a brisk pace.

“What do you hope to find, Pons?”

“Evidence of crime, Parker,” said my companion grimly as we hurried across the concourse with our hand baggage to where the slim figure of Miss Hayling waited at the head of the steps.

The house was indeed sombre and lonely though Miss Hayling’s hospitality was lavish and Mr and Mrs McRae were kind and attentive. It was obvious that the atmosphere had lightened with Pons’ arrival and as we were served a late lunch in an old oak-panelled dining-room Miss Hayling’s manner was bright, almost gay at times.

She answered all Pons’ questions in great detail and the events at the house and in the grounds were gone through again, this time with the benefit of Pons being on the spot. So dark did it get in these northerly latitudes in winter-time that it was almost dusk by the time we had finished at table but despite this Pons insisted on seeing round outside and listened to our hostess’s explanations of the estate with keen attention.

If anything, Glen Affric, the girl’s property being named after the nearby glen, was more bleak and remote than before in the fading light. The chill mist persisted but despite this Pons tramped about the stable-yard and the adjoining paths through the fir-plantations with energy and gusto, occasionally asking questions of Mackintosh, who accompanied us, and at other times darting aside silently on small expeditions of his own.

It was during one such that we temporarily found ourselves alone, Miss Hayling having gone in search of her black Labrador which was engaged in chasing an imaginary rabbit.

“I have already spoken to the tenant farmer about that matter, Mr Pons,” the gardener said diffidently. “There should be no difficulty. We will try and get the cart up by midday tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” said Pons crisply, turning his head as the girl came up with the dog at her heels.

“This must be the spot hereabouts, where you were attacked, is it not?”

The good Mackintosh’ face turned brick-red and he knotted his thick fist.

“Aye, Mr Pons, a little farther down here. As you can see the shrubbery comes quite near the edge of the path. The black villain sprang on me as my back was turned or I’d have given him a hard fight of it, sir.”

“I have no doubt of that,” I said encouragingly.

The girl smiled at the gardener’s expression, calling to the dog, which was sniffing about in the bushes. But she stopped when Pons held up his hand, an alert expression on his face.

“I believe he has found something.”

The dog was in fact snarling at this point, as though he had discovered something particularly unpleasant. I followed Pons as he strode into the clump of bushes. It was still light enough to see clearly and I could make out an area of muddy ground which looked as though someone had trampled over it.

“Have you been through here lately, Mr Mackintosh?”

“Not I, sir,” said the gardener in his sturdy manner. “When that villain hit me I lost consciousness and came to myself in the driveway. I must have staggered some yards and I had no idea from what direction my attacker had come. There was no point in searching the shrubbery at any particular point. Of course, the police were called and went all over the place, but the rain would have blotted out their tracks weeks ago.”

Solar Pons shook his head, his deep-set eyes searching the ground. “I do not think the police would be involved. Someone has been standing here for a long time, as though watching the house.”

He looked thoughtfully at the blanket of mist which pressed upon us.

“Can one see the house from here in normal conditions?” “Most certainly, Mr Pons,” the girl said. “It is only a few hundred yards.”

Pons had stopped now and was going over the ground carefully, his thin, sensitive fingers raking in the icy mud. He gave a muffled exclamation and came up with two yellowed slivers of something that looked like wood or cardboard. He held them up to Mackintosh.

“You know what these are?”

“Of course, Mr Pons. Swan Vestas.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Exactly. Someone stood here smoking and watching the house, dropping his matches from time to time and stamping them out on the ground. Perhaps you surprised him when you came along the path in the dusk. He may have dropped something else in his hurry. Hullo!”

I looked round, startled by the urgency in his voice.

“I fancy the dog has something there in his mouth, Miss Hayling.”

The Labrador had, in fact, a black bedraggled object which it was shaking and worrying with a dreadful intensity. The animal rolled its eyes and I thought it was going to bite the gardener as he bent to take it from him. When he had wrested it away from the Labrador he handed it to Pons.

“Nothing but an old oilskin tobacco pouch, Mr Pons.” “Mmm.”

Pons studied it in silence.

“Half-full of Coronation Mixture, I see. And the initials M.F. in gold lettering on the side. What does that suggest to you, Parker?”

“Mungo Ferguson, Pons!”

“You have not quite lost your ratiocinative touch, Parker. The name fits rather too pat it would appear.”

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

“Do you not, Parker. We have every reason to believe that Ferguson is the tool of McDonald.”

“You mean the Colonel left the pouch here, Pons!” “Possibly, Parker. Or he has his own reasons for employing a hot-headed and unreliable tool.”

The girl’s eyes blazed and she looked at Solar Pons in amazement.

“The dog hates Ferguson, Mr Pons. No wonder he was growling.”

She paused, controlling her emotions.

“Are you suggesting Colonel McDonald is using the man Ferguson as a scapegoat, Mr Pons?”

My companion looked at her mildly, putting the oilskin pouch into his pocket.

“Nothing is impossible in these romantic surroundings, Miss Hayling. But it is a cold and inclement night, with darkness fast approaching. We can do little more here. I propose we adjourn to the house where we may plan our strategy for the morrow.”

7

I was late abed the next morning, possibly because I slept soundly after our journey and the strange change of scene, and it was past nine o’clock when I joined Pons at the breakfast table. Miss Hayling was in the study discussing some matter with McRae and Pons was alone, his head wreathed in tobacco smoke, frowningly studying large-scale maps of the area. He seemed oblivious of my presence but as Mrs McRae smilingly appeared with silver breakfast dishes on a tray he abruptly waved his hand to disperse the tobacco smoke and moved his charts to one side.

“Forgive me, my dear fellow. My manners are abominable when I become absorbed in these problems.”

“Think nothing of it, Pons,” I said, falling to with a will on the great platter of bacon, eggs and sausages Mrs McRae had prepared.

“I have such an appetite your pipe does not bother me at all.”

“It is indeed good of you, Parker,” said my companion with a sly smile at Mrs McRae. “Yes, thank you, Mrs McRae, I will have another cup of that excellent coffee if there is enough to spare.”

“There is plenty here, Mr Pons,” said that good lady, pouring for us both. “And if there were not I would be glad to make a third pot.”

I studied Pons between mouthfuls.

“You have made some progress?”

“A little, Parker. Tell me, Mrs McRae, how is your knowledge of these parts?”

“Extensive but not exhaustive, Mr Pons.”

“Excellent. Pray sit here for a moment or two, if you please.”

Mrs McRae sat down opposite, looking with puzzled eyes at my companion.

“Can you read a map at all with any accuracy, Mrs McRae?” “Tolerably well, Mr Pons. My husband and I did a great deal of walking in the old days, when we were young.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons tented his thin fingers before him, his deep-set eyes fixed on the housekeeper.

“The large-scale map of this area in front of you, for instance. Would you be able to indicate to me roughly, using this thick black crayon, the boundaries of Colonel McDonald’s estates.”

“I think so, Mr Pons.”

Mrs McRae sat with pursed lips, studying the map intently while Pons sat quietly smoking, his eyes studying her face. I had finished my bacon and eggs and had started on the toast and marmalade before she stirred. Then she seized the crayon and started etching boundaries over a large section of the map.

“That, to the best of my knowledge, is the extent of the Colonel’s lands, Mr Pons. I have no doubt Miss Hayling would corroborate, though I could not vouch for fine detail. The land by the stream there and the more mountainous parts may be inaccurate by a quarter of a mile or so.”

“A quarter of a mile or so, Mrs McRae!” said Pons, surprise on his face. “You are a paragon among female cartographers!” “You make fun of me, Mr Pons.”

“By no means, Mrs McRae. I have never been more serious. Those lines you have drawn are invaluable. My grateful thanks.”

“You are welcome, I’m sure.”

Mrs McRae rose, the surprise still evident on her face and with a reiterated statement that if we required anything further we were to ring, withdrew.

Pons sat for some minutes, studying the map, his eyes glittering with suppressed excitement. I sat back in my chair and finished my second cup of coffee. It was still almost dark outside, but the strengthening light showed only dim outlines of soaked coppices through the thin mist.

“You have found something, Pons?”

“It has confirmed my suspicions, Parker. Except for the main roads, Colonel McDonald’s lands completely surround the estate of Glen Affric. More significantly, Miss Hayling’s property is the only flat land of any size in these parts, the remainder consisting of bleak hillside, rough glen and undulating forest-land, most of it extremely inhospitable indeed.”

“Is that of significance, Pons?”

“Absolutely vital, Parker. It is an essential clue to this bizarre business. Look here.”

I drew my chair over, following the tip of the crayon, and carefully examined the map. By using the figures given for contours I was able to see it was indeed as Pons had said. Much of the land owned by the Colonel was precipitous and most of it lay at an altitude of over 2,000 feet.

“Let me have your thoughts on the matter, Parker.”

I frowned at him through the pipe-smoke.

“I have not many, truth to tell, Pons. Perhaps it is as the girl says. The Land Trust want Miss Hayling’s property for holiday development.”

Solar Pons narrowed his eyes thoughtfully through the smoke.

“I fancy there is a good deal more to it than that, Parker. However, McDonald is an expert at floating bogus companies. We will see what the Land Trust office has to say. They are located at Inverness, are they not?”

“I believe Miss Hayling said so, Pons.”

I studied the map again but the more I looked at it the more puzzling the problem became. We were interrupted at our occupation by the entrance of Pons’ client. She was dressed in a thick sweater, a long skirt and stout boots so it was evident that she was prepared for some heavy walking about the estate.

“I am just off to the Five-Acre Wood with Mr McRae, gentlemen. If there is anything further you require, Mackintosh or Mrs McRae will be glad to look after your wants.”

“We are quite well provided for, Miss Hayling,” said Pons equably. “And I have my day planned out, thank you.”

The girl smiled.

“Very good, gentlemen. Lunch is at one. I will see you then.”

We both stood as the girl left the room, her slim, lithe body the picture of health and energy.

“A very brave young lady, Pons,” I observed.

“I believe you have already said so, Parker. But it is a truism worth repeating, nevertheless.”

A few moments later we saw our hostess walk past the window with McRae.

“You do not think she is in any danger, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“Not for the moment. I fancy McRae can look after himself. She is in good hands.”

As soon as the couple had disappeared along the misty drive Solar Pons was galvanised into action.

“Now that the young lady is away, Parker, we can set to work. We must first find Mackintosh and I must then descend to the stream at the bottom of the ravine. It is imperative that we get that dog-cart up.”

“Just give me a minute or two, Pons,” I said. “I need my thick walking boots and an overcoat.”

“Very well, my dear fellow, but do hurry.”

When I bustled downstairs five minutes later Pons was already standing impatiently on the drive before the house, obviously eager to be off. We could not find Mackintosh at his cottage or the stable-block. It was now full daylight and Pons looked at his watch anxiously.

“I think we will make our own way there, Parker.”

I followed him down the drive. The mist had lifted a little but it was still a bleak and inhospitable day.

“Perhaps Mackintosh is already down there, supervising the lifting operations,” I suggested, as I fell into step with him. “Perhaps, Parker. We shall see.”

And he said nothing further until we had arrived at the bridge. The way down was indeed steep and precipitous and I must confess my heart sank when I thought of our errand and the terrible end of the girl’s parents in their headlong dash to destruction over this very road.

Our footsteps echoed hollowly in the mist and only the harsh cry of some bird broke the eerie stillness. Moisture pattered faintly from the dripping foliage and the bitter air rasped in one’s throat while our breath smoked out of our mouths. Pons had thrust his pipe into his pocket and walked along grimly, his brows frowning over his deep-set eyes. I had rarely seen him look so serious. For some reason he had seized a thick hawthorn stick from the hall-stand as he left the house and he slashed moodily at various pieces of foliage at the roadside as we descended.

We had reached the bridge and the sombre gorge now and I could hear the faint fret of the river in the far depths below. It struck with a chilling note to the heart. Pons glanced keenly about him.

“You have your revolver, Parker?”

I tapped the breast-pocket of my overcoat.

“You insisted on me bringing it north, Pons. You told me we were on a dangerous business. I have it here.”

A faint smile curled the corners of his lips.

“Excellent, Parker. You are running true to form.”

He had turned aside as he spoke and plunged downward between the dark boles of the trees as though he had known the place all his life. I followed rather more hesitantly, as it was slippery underfoot, and I was more than once thankful for the thick cleats on the soles of my heavy boots.

8

It was a dark and gloomy place and the incessant fret of the water, which grew ever louder, only emphasised its sombreness. Pons led at a fast pace, winding downward through the shadowy boles of the trees, the water roaring in our ears now. I saw as we came level with the stream that it tumbled over boulders below the bridge and then flowed level, though swiftly, in a calmer manner.

Pons plunged forward along the bank, following the curve of the stream, until he arrived at a point just below the. falls where there was deep, fairly agitated water. He looked up toward the bridge, which was hidden from us by the thick matting of undergrowth and tree-boles.

“A bad place, Parker. They would have hit the head of the waterfall and then come down the fall into the deeper water here.”

“You mean Miss Hayling’s parents, Pons. An awful business.”

I stared at the white, broken water but was roused from my reverie by a sharp exclamation from my companion.

“Extraordinary though it may seem, it has gone, Parker. Mackintosh has been true to his word.”

I followed his gaze. Though dark, the stream was clear here and I could see to the bottom. There was certainly no sign of the wreckage of the dog-cart. Pons was already moving again and I followed him across large boulders which made a series of stepping-stones. They were wet and slippery and the water ran surging and deep between them so that I was glad to reach the far bank without a ducking. There were dark runnels torn in the soil here, where the cart had been dragged up the bank. Pons looked sharply about him.

“I shall be surprised if this is Mackintosh’ work, Parker,” he said drily.

He slashed moodily at the undergrowth with his stick.

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

“Do you not, Parker. It is crystal-clear. But it merely confirms what I wished to know.”

He turned as there came a crashing noise in the bushes. The angry figure of Mackintosh appeared, with a puzzled-looking farm-worker in corduroy behind him.

“It is disgraceful, Mr Pons! I have never heard the like!”

“I take it you did not remove the cart, Mackintosh.”

“Not I, sir,” replied the other grimly. “It has been taken out by the people from the neighbouring smallholding and burned in their yard! Despite the fact that this is private property!”

“By whose orders?”

“Mr Mungo Ferguson’s sir!”

Solar Pons smiled grimly. He turned to me.

“This promises to be rather interesting, Parker. Let us just find out the situation. Is Mr Ferguson there?”

Mackintosh nodded gloomily, falling in at Pons’ side as we walked uphill, away from the babbling stream.

“Aye, Mr Pons. Supervising the burning. I gave him my tongue and he is in no better temper for it. I thought it best to come away for he is a formidable man when the anger is on him. I know not what you wanted to prove, Mr Pons, but there was little left of the cart when I last saw it.”

Pons nodded, his deep-set eyes gleaming.

“It was of oak, I should have said.”

“That’s right, Mr Pons. It had lasted well, despite the action of the water.”

“How on earth did he burn it?” I put in.

Mackintosh turned a puzzled face to me over his shoulder.

“He poured petrol over it, Dr Parker. If ever a man seemed determined to destroy another’s property, it was Mungo Ferguson.”

“Destroy evidence, rather,” said Pons, a hard expression in his eyes. “Well, he has played right into our hands.”

He increased his pace and as we came up from that gloomy valley I could see thick black smoke billowing across the trees, where low, poor-looking farm buildings jutted from the landscape. Mackintosh turned to speak to the man in corduroy and he went back across the fields, presumably to his own farm.

Within a very few minutes we had come upon an extraordinary scene. In the midden within the three sides formed by the stout stone walls of the farmhouse, byre and stable, were a group of wild-looking men, standing round a great fire of bracken and wood. They were labouring types obviously and the dominant figure among them, who stood a little apart and directed them, was a gigantic figure in hairy tweeds with flaming red hair and a thick beard. Pons chuckled quietly to himself.

“Mr Mungo Ferguson,” he said with satisfaction. “Well, Parker, the best means of defence is attack, is it not?”

And without more ado he strode across to the group round the fire, who watched with a sort of sullen fascination as we came up. The huge man, who had a coarse, inflamed face, had been shouting at the men about the fire and I now saw that it contained the remains of a carriage, obviously the one with which we were concerned. It was almost all consumed and the shafts had evidently been the first to go, for there was no sign of them. Two petrol cans stood at a distance from the bonfire and it was obvious that they had been used to ignite the sodden wood.

“Who is responsible for this?” said Solar Pons, coming to a halt near the group of men, but glancing sidelong at the figure of the bearded man who toyed with a shooting-stick in one gigantic hand. The men stirred uneasily but before they could reply the big man came to life. He stamped forward menacingly, holding the metal stick in his hand, and glared at my companion.

“You are on private property. You are trespassing.”

“I am well aware of that,” said Solar Pons evenly. “You are burning private property, are you not?”

Ferguson had a loud, coarse voice and his eyes flamed with anger, but there was something about Pons’ quiet, resolute manner, that made him pause and choose his words with relative care.

“The carriage has been blocking yon stream for a long time. We thought it was time to have it out.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“An odd coincidence, was it not, that you chose the very day we had decided to remove it ourselves?”

“Maybe,” Ferguson snapped.

He came closer, his manner bristling and prickly.

“You have a name do you?”

“Solar Pons. And you, judging by your coarseness and lack of manners must be Mungo Ferguson.”

There was a hoarse burst of laughter from the men round the fire and Ferguson drew himself up, his red-rimmed eyes filled with hatred.

“Solar Pons!”

He bit the words off savagely.

“The London detective! The meddler and prier into other people’s affairs!”

Solar Pons stood quietly, perfectly at ease, a smile on his lips. His assured attitude seemed to enrage the red-haired man.

“Well, we have a way with meddlers in these parts, Mr Solar Pons! We pitch them down the mountainside, head first!”

Solar Pons drew himself up, his right hand firm and steady on the stick.

“You are welcome to try, my vulgar fellow, but I would not advise it.”

With a bellow of rage Mungo Ferguson lurched forward, raising the shooting-stick. Mackintosh had started forward in alarm and I was before him but our assistance was not needed. The stout hawthorn stick moved round so quickly it was just a blur in the air. There was a dull crack as it connected with the giant’s shin and he gave a low howl of pain.

Pons turned swiftly as the red-haired man staggered, falling forward; he brought the shooting-stick round in a vain effort to support himself but he had not even reached the ground before my companion caught him two resounding blows across the thick of the body. He fell with a tremendous crash and there was blood on his chin as he scrambled to his feet, a burning madness in his eyes.

“I have some little experience of bar-room brawls,” said Solar Pons coolly, “and am able to meet you on your own terms. I would advise you to cut your losses.”

There was an enraged bellow from the giant and he came forward, his huge fists flailing. Light as a ballet dancer, Pons moved to one side so that the man’s mad rush took him past. The stick came round again, tripping him this time. When he regained his feet, his face plastered with mud and green from the grass, he had lost much of his confidence, but he still came forward with a low growl.

“This has gone far enough, sir,” said Mackintosh in a concerned voice, though he could not erase the delight from his features.

The huge man thrust him aside and leapt at Pons for the third time. His blows met only empty air. Then Pons had thrown the heavy stick down; Ferguson staggered as Pons’ left caught him on the point of the chin. My companion’s second blow, from his right, clipped him exactly in the classic textbook spot and his eyes glazed. He went down, his body square in the heart of the fire, red-hot ashes, cinders and sparks erupting into the air like fireworks.

I rushed forward with Pons to drag him clear and soon saw that though he was unconscious, there was little damage done, except for a scorch-mark on the breast of his overcoat and a smouldering coat-tail. The awed group of men tending the bonfire moved to let us pass. Pons retrieved his stick from the ground, his eyes sparkling, his breathing even and normal, his voice good-tempered.

“You may tell Mr Ferguson when he comes to himself that the Colonel now has me to deal with. He will understand.”

He looked down thoughtfully at the unconscious giant.

“If I were you I should lose no time in getting him to his home. He will catch a chill lying on the ground at this time of the year.”

And with a dry chuckle he turned on his heel and made his way back across the fields, re-tracing the route we had already followed. Mackintosh caught up with us before we had gone ten yards.

“That was champion, sir. Just champion. I have never seen the like. Allow me to shake you by the hand, Mr Pons.”

The old fellow was so sincere in his admiration and delight that Pons smilingly extended his hand.

“It was nothing,” he said carelessly. “I was quite a good amateur boxer at one time. But the affair was a single-stick bout for the most part and I must confess I rather pride myself on my prowess in that direction.”

I fell into step alongside him.

“At any rate it has demoralised friend Ferguson and thrown the enemy into disorder,” said Pons reflectively. “I have no time for such bullies and there is no doubt in my mind that it was Ferguson who downed you in the coppice that dark evening, Mackintosh.”

The old man’s face was clouded with anger.

“Then you have made ample restitution, Mr Pons, and I am doubly grateful to you.”

“You have made a bad enemy, Pons,” said I.

“Tut, Parker, he is a tool, merely, and as such of no importance. But unless I miss my guess the incident will bring some reaction from the Colonel. The thing is as plain as daylight to both of us. Each reads the other like a book.”

“I do not quite follow you, Pons.”

“Ah, here we are at the stream again,” said my companion, as though he had not heard my comment, and he was silent and preoccupied with his thoughts until we had again regained the comfortable quarters assigned to us at our hostess’ estate.

9

Smoke and steam obscured the platform as we descended from the carriage in the biting air.

“But why are we returning to Inverness, Pons? And by such a roundabout route? That long journey in the dog-cart and then the change of train and boring wait?”

“Tut, Parker,” said Solar Pons impatiently, as we gave up our tickets at the barrier.

“It is elementary, surely. The Land Trust offices are at Carnock House, Inverness. Therefore, to Inverness we must go.”

“But Mackintosh could have driven us here direct, just as he did when we came,” I protested.

Solar Pons shook his head, impatience showing in his deep-set eyes.

“You are not using your brain, Parker,” he said crisply. “And give away our destination? The thrashing I gave Mungo Ferguson would have reached the Colonel’s ears very quickly. Before he has time to react, we have made our move. I wanted to reach Inverness secretly, before he has an inkling of what we are about.”

“I see, Pons,” I said, as we hurried down a side-street opposite the station. “But where is Carnock House?”

“I have already looked it up,” said Solar Pons, shifting his valise from one hand to the other. “It is a pity that we have to leave Miss Hayling for one night like this but there was no alternative if I was to find out what I wanted. But with Mackintosh sleeping in the house tonight and the McRaes on the alert, she is safe enough for the moment.”

“But what do you expect to find here today, Pons?”

“The Land Trust is the key to the whole thing, Parker. I must find out what sort of statements they are issuing. The girl’s property is the crux of the matter. This is where you come in, Parker.”

“Me, Pons?”

I looked at him in some alarm, as we turned into a broad, impressive-looking thoroughfare, crowded with shoppers and traffic.

“Your grammar is going to pieces in your agitation, Parker, but I follow your drift. I want you to play out a little comedy in the main office and keep the clerk they employ busy.”

“What will you be doing in the meantime?”

Solar Pons chuckled.

“Breaking into their private quarters, Parker.”

I gazed at him in horror.

“You cannot be serious, Pons!”

My friend stared at me sombrely.

“I was never more serious, Parker. The young lady’s life is in danger. McDonald will step tip his campaign against her now that I am on his home territory. You surely have not forgotten that creature at the hotel?”

I shivered and drew my overcoat collar closer round me. “You are right, as ever, Pons. But what are we to do if we are caught? There may be others on the staff.”

Solar Pons shook his head as we turned into a large, imposing-looking court, crowded with offices and commercial buildings.

“I have already deduced from what our client says, Parker, that the office is a sham, merely designed to give respectability and credence to the Colonel’s operations. It is imposing enough, I give you, but if we are to believe Miss Hayling it is not even on the telephone. The young fellow McDonald employs as a clerk is respectable enough, and no doubt believes in the reality of the brochures and literature he sends out. But he is the only person on the premises so my scheme should not be too difficult to put into operation.”

I looked at him with pursed lips.

“Let us hope you are right, Pons. Otherwise we shall not need our hotel reservations while spending the night in police cells.”

Pons was still chuckling when we came in sight of the discreet gilt lettering of the Scottish Land Trust offices. They were respectable-looking premises in a narrow-chested building of clean-cut granite, whose bow windows were filled with impressive cabinet photographs and printed literature drawing-pinned to green baize boards. I paused and pretended to examine the windows while Pons turned aside under a small archway which immediately adjoined the building and led to a cobbled courtyard at the side.

He was back again in a few moments, his face bright and alert. He handed me the valise.

“It is just as I thought, Parker. There is a small private office with a glass door which a child could unlock. There are filing cabinets and desks and I should be able to find what I want there. Now listen carefully, because I want you to follow my instructions implicitly.”

A few minutes later, as I entered the office, there was no sign of Pons in the street outside. I had begun my task in doubt and uncertainty knowing that we were engaged in illegal, perhaps even criminal proceedings, but the young man with dark hair who rose eagerly from his desk at the back of the office to come to the counter on my entry, was so naive and unversed in the profession for which he was so obviously unfitted that I rapidly regained my confidence.

The elaborate and searching questions about the Scottish Land Trust with which Pons had primed me, soon had young Wilson in a tangle and he had shortly retreated to his desk, pencil in hand, while he searched for a slip of paper on which to note his mumbled calculations. When he rejoined me at the counter, there were little patches of pink on his cheeks and his manner was agitated and nervous in the extreme. But I think I carried out my task with commendable thoroughness. With the brochures and other literature spread out on the countertop between us, I plied the young clerk with searching questions so that the quarter of an hour Pons had stipulated had seemingly passed in a flash.

Twenty-five minutes had ensued before Wilson had extricated himself from the morass of questions and another five before I had gathered up all the material he had placed before me. I finished up by giving the young man an entirely fictitious name and address and he was so pleased to get rid of me that he actually ran round the counter-flap to open the street door.

I walked on briskly down the road, in the thickening mist, in case he was still looking after me and at the next corner came across Pons indolently studying the contents of a tobacconist’s window. He turned to me with a welcoming smile.

“Excellent, Parker. You played your part to perfection. That question about investments overseas was shrewdly phrased.” I looked at him in puzzlement.

“How would you know that, Pons?”

“Because I was the other side of the door to the inner office watching you both,” he said quietly, falling into step as we wended our way back through the narrow streets.

“You had some luck, then?”

He nodded, putting the stem of his empty pipe between his teeth.

“It has been a most fruitful expedition, Parker. We have only to visit Mr Angus Dermot at Culzean Lodge and we are free to return to Miss Hayling’s estate.”

“Mr Angus Dermot, Pons?”

My companion nodded. He drew two heavy sheaves of documents from his pocket.

“He is a geologist and mineralogist who fortunately lives quite close by in Inverness. If he is at home we will have saved a good deal of time and trouble.”

And he quickened his pace as though trying to outstrip his racing thoughts. When I caught up with him at the next corner, he had turned into a quiet street of broad-fronted, respectable-looking houses whose trim front gardens led to carved mahogany doors whose brassware winked welcomingly through the mist.

His ring at the bell was answered by a trim, short man of about thirty with dark, tousled hair and a good-natured face. His eyes expressed surprise behind his steel-framed spectacles.

“Mr Angus Dermot?”

“Yes. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“My business is private, Mr Dermot, and cannot be discussed in the street. My name is Solar Pons and this is my friend and colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker.”

The young man’s cheeks flushed slightly and he shifted nervously on the door-step.

“Mr Pons! The famous detective. Forgive my manners, gentlemen. Come in by all means though what you can want with me I cannot fathom.”

“We will get to that in a moment, Mr Dermot,” said Pons smoothly, standing aside for me to precede him into the hall. Dermot shut the door behind us decisively and led the way into a cheerful study in which a coal fire blazed in a brick surround. With his thick brown tweed suit he looked out of place in the room, as though farming were his natural vocation. He waved us into two leather armchairs set in front of a raised construction which was part desk, part drawing-board. A green-shaded electric lamp was suspended above it and its surface was littered with papers and map-tracings. Pons wasted no time in coming to the point.

“Mr Dermot, you are a geologist and mineralogist, are you not?”

The young man stared at us in frank puzzlement.

“Among other things, yes, Mr Pons. There is no secret about that.”

Solar Pons tented his thin fingers before him.

“Just so. I would like you to cast your mind back some time. You made a report, did you not, for the Scottish Land Trust, regarding a property known as Glen Affric.”

Dermot was leaning against his drawing-board but now he drew himself up as though he had been stung, indignation on his features.

“That was a highly confidential report, Mr Pons. How you came to know of this is beyond me.”

“We will leave that aside for the moment,” said Pons calmly. “You confirmed the presence of certain minerals, I believe. I would hazard the guess that there was something strange about the commission. You were employed by Mr Mungo Ferguson, were you not?”

Dermot stared defiantly at Pons for a moment, then lowered his eyes sheepishly. He broke into a chuckle.

“Your reputation has not been exaggerated, Mr Pons. This was a highly confidential report. My sample drillings were carried out by night, in areas of woodland. The whole thing was most unusual but the arrangements were made, I was told, because of the secrecy necessary for a profitable commercial enterprise.”

Pons’ lean, aquiline features were alive with interest.

“Hmm. This is something you have met before in your experience?”

“Sometimes, Mr Pons. Though it is comparatively rare it is not unknown.”

“You have a high reputation in your profession, I understand. One you would not wish to hazard.”

Dermot’s frank, open features showed his thoughts clearly. “I have never yet broken my word, Mr Pons. And my reputation is as dear to me as your own.”

“Well said, Mr Dermot,” I could not forbear adding and Pons glanced at me with amusement, giving a dry chuckle.

“I was not imputing any slur on your reputation, Mr Dermot. But your report — your highly confidential report — revealed the presence of shale oil in great commercial quantity.”

Dermot s face bore a puzzled expression again.

“I cannot see how that can be, Mr Pons. My test drillings confirmed the presence of low-grade shale oil, but hardly in commercial quantity. It would not be worth anyone’s while to attempt to extract it and I made the matter clear in various letters which accompanied my reports.”

My companion was smiling now.

“Excellent, Mr Dermot. Everything is quite clear. You have told me all I wish to know.”

“That is all very well, Mr Pons, but I am in some confusion. We cannot let the matter rest here. You have somehow come into possession of a secret document intended only for the eyes of my clients.”

Pons nodded.

“You are perfectly correct, sir. You have been open with me. I will be equally frank in return.”

He drummed with restless fingers on the arm of his chair. “I must in turn impose a pledge of secrecy upon you.” “You have my word, Mr Pons,” the young man replied quickly.

“I have reason to suspect your work is being used as the basis of a gigantic swindle. A young lady’s estate is the key to the whole business, and murder and attempted murder are only some of the ingredients.”

There was nothing but shock and suspended disbelief in Dermot’s eyes.

“You cannot be serious, Mr Pons?”

“I was never more serious, Mr Dermot. I hope to bring this business to a successful conclusion within the next few days but in the meantime nothing of what we have discussed here tonight must go beyond these four walls.”

“I have already given my word, Mr Pons.”

My companion looked at our host approvingly.

“Excellent. It goes without saying, Mr Dermot, that your part in this affair is nothing more than that of an innocent person whose work has been made the basis of fraudulent misrepresentation. You may rely upon me to bring the true facts before the police authorities.”

“Thank you, Mr Pons.”

Young Dermot came forward impulsively and shook my companion’s hand.

“You may rely upon me for every assistance.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“We will be in touch, Mr Dermot. Come, Parker.”

And he strode from the room so briskly that I was hard put to it to keep up with him.

10

“All is well, Parker.”

Solar Pons opened the door of the telephone booth outside the station and emerged, rubbing his hands. It was a bright, cold morning with just a hint of mist, and our journey back from Inverness had been uneventful.

“Mackintosh is already on his way and should be here shortly. But let us go into the waiting room. There is a fire and we will be more comfortable than in the street.”

I followed him into the small chamber with its leather and horsehair benches, where a glowing coal fire gave off a cheerful radiance that gleamed on the brass fire-irons and coal-scuttle in the fender. I glanced at a coloured poster advertising the attractions of the Isle of Skye as I warmed my hands at the fire. Pons put his valise down on a corner of the bench and busied himself lighting his pipe.

We were alone in the room which shook and vibrated as a fast train went through on the down-line outside. Pons sat frowning for a moment and then fixed me with a steady eye.

“Well, Parker, I take it you have easily seen through Colonel McDonald’s little scheme.”

I shifted uncomfortably before the fire.

“I get the general drift, Pons, but I am not so sure I see the specific purpose of this blackguard’s operations.”

Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe, a little furrow of concentration on his brow.

“Tut, Parker, it is simplicity itself. I had a good idea of what lay behind the sinister events enmeshing Miss Hayling before ever we left London. Her letters had apprised me of most of the details and I lacked only the motive. That McDonald was behind it was obvious. Not only did it bear all the hallmarks of his shifty schemes but Miss Hayling’s glimpse of him with that scoundrel Ferguson clinched the matter.”

He looked reflectively at the black-bearded porter who was vigorously sweeping the platform with a twiglet broom in the hard winter sunshine on the other side of the line.

“Unfortunately, there was little deductive prowess called for, though it was an exercise not without its points.”

“You talk as though the whole thing were over, Pons.”

“So it is, Parker, so it is,” my friend remarked dreamily. “Though I must confess that I am at some pains as to how to bring him out into the open. And I am still going to find it difficult to prove anything against him.”

He rubbed his thin fingers together and turned his eyes on the fire as though he could read the answer in the small blue and green flames which leapt and danced and sang as the coals shifted as they burned deeper into the grate.

“Ferguson is a danger to McDonald, Parker,” he said almost absently. “Something will happen or my name is not Pons.”

I came to stand in front of him.

“What do you mean?”

“We wanted to get that dog-cart up from the stream. Ferguson bungled it by having the thing burned.”

“But how did he know?”

“Tut, Parker, the simplest thing in the world. There are two small tenant farmers with properties adjoining. Mackintosh gives his farmer instructions about raising the cart yesterday morning. The other farmer, who is McDonald’s tenant, lives in a house only a few hundred yards away. It is my guess that we have been under observation through field-glasses in daylight hours during every journey we have taken in these parts since our arrival. They would have seen me at the stream and McDonald would have known soon after.”

“You cannot mean it, Pons.”

“I do mean it, Parker. It was only by going far off in our journey to Inverness that we have come close to the truth.”

“I am apparently excluded from it,” I said somewhat bitterly.

Pons glanced at me with sympathetic eyes.

“Surely not, Parker. We have both had the same set of circumstances before us. McDonald wanted the Haylings’ land. He failed by legal means to obtain it so he achieved his object, or so he thought, by the crude methods of Ferguson. That precious rascal or one of his minions half-sawed through the shafts of that unfortunate couple’s dog-cart. It had been carefully done and gave at the moment of greatest stress, the right-angle turn across the bridge. But McDonald had not bargained for Miss Hayling and her stubbornness. He found he still could not get hold of the land.”

“But why did he want it, Pons?”

My friend looked at me quizzically.

“You have already told me the reason, my dear Parker,” he said patiently. “It was surrounded by the Colonel’s property and was the only flat piece of land of any size for miles around. The Colonel had to have it for the latest gigantic swindle he was floating.”

“This is all supposition, Pons.”

My companion shook his head.

“Not at all, Parker. It is as plain as day. It was all there in the brochures and prospectuses I stole from the Scottish Land Trust offices. That gives a glowing and entirely erroneous picture of things, based on young Dermot’s report.”

My puzzlement must have shown for Pons’ face creased in a smile.

“Oil, Parker, oil! An oil boom which, to mix a metaphor, the Colonel wishes to convert into a gold-mine.”

I looked at him blankly.

“But there is only low-grade shale-oil there, Pons!”

“Exactly, Parker. McDonald is relying on this to give credence to his fantastic scheme. He is floating hundreds of thousands of shares in a specially set-up company, based on misleading statements from Dermot’s confidential report. It is all here. He wants the girl’s land for his drilling operations and plant to give the whole thing a plausible basis.”

He tapped the breast-pocket of his overcoat.

“There are thousands of gullible fools in this world who will invest in anything providing it promises them a reasonable return. This, if we are to believe the literature, promises them a hundredfold for each share. If McDonald owns Miss Hayling’s property and floats his company, I estimate at a rough guess that he will make something in excess of three million pounds before the bubble bursts.”

“Good heavens, Pons!”

I stared at my companion for a long moment.

“Exactly, Parker,” said Pons succinctly. “The problem is, how are we to stop it, with nothing concrete to lay before the authorities. This was the reason the Colonel was so anxious to get rid of me when he learned I was coming northward at Miss Hayling’s behest. And he is equally obviously behind the attempts on Miss Hayling’s life, using an odious tool like Ferguson, whom he employs as a figurehead and smokescreen.”

“But supposing Ferguson exceeds his authority, Pons?”

My friend smiled thinly.

“McDonald is relying on that, Parker. Ferguson, crude, violent and bad-tempered is ideal for his purposes. If anything goes wrong he would be the scapegoat. McDonald would have covered his tracks perfectly. No-one at the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions would be able to link him with the Land Trust in any way.”

“He must be a devil, Pons.”

“He is, Parker.”

“Then he left Ferguson’s tobacco pouch in Miss Hayling’s grounds?”

“Not in person, Parker. But he would have given the instructions from far off.”

His brooding eyes looked into the heart of the fire.

“I would not like to be in Ferguson’s shoes when the Colonel reacts to our latest moves.”

He broke off as there came a grating noise from the forecourt outside the little station.

“Ah, here is the good Mackintosh now.”

The sturdy form of the gardener was indeed striding toward the station entrance and we hurried out to him for there was something grim and stern in his usually good-natured features. He came to the point straight away.

“A bad business, Mr Pons, though a relief for Miss Hayling. Mungo Ferguson has been found dead in a ravine near Glen Affric.”

Pons’ face became sharp and alert.

“Ah! I am not surprised. The development we have been waiting for, Parker.”

I nodded.

“You believe the Colonel to be responsible?”

Solar Pons’ face was as grim as Mackintosh’ own.

“I know he is, Parker. When and how did this happen?”

“Early this morning, Mr Pons. The body has been taken to the mortuary in Inverness. I met a local constable on my way to fetch you and he gave me the news. Apparently Ferguson slipped at a steep part of the ravine, fell and broke his neck. Foul play is not suspected.”

A bitter smile twisted Pons’ lips.

“It bears all the ear-marks of the Colonel. He is a worthy opponent, however evil and warped. Ferguson had served his purpose and had become too dangerous, Parker.”

“Even so, Mr Pons,” said Mackintosh steadily. “It is a bad business.”

“You are quite right, Mr Mackintosh,” my companion observed evenly. “I accept your implicit moral judgment. Now, we must put final matters in train.”

“What are you going to do, Pons?”

“Send a telegram to the Colonel at Ardrossan Lodge, Parker. I have a mind to bring him into the open. My challenge is one he will find it difficult to avoid.”

I felt somewhat alarmed at his words and looked at him anxiously as we took our seats in the trap.

“I would like you to find the local post-office and send this telegram for me,” Pons told Mackintosh, who had now clambered into the driving seat.

“Certainly, Mr Pons. It is only a few hundred yards.”

Pons pulled an old envelope from his pocket and sat smoking furiously as we rattled down the narrow street, his brows furrowed and concentrated as he wrote with a stub of pencil on the back of the envelope. He looked at it with satisfaction as we drew up in front of a large granite building. Mackintosh’ eyes opened wide as he glanced at the envelope when Pons handed it to him. My companion rummaged in his pocket and gave him a guinea.

“Please keep the change.”

“Thank you, Mr Pons. Would you like me to go to the village for a reply when we arrive back?”

Pons shook his head.

“I think not. It is my belief that the Colonel will come in person.”

My astonishment re-echoed Mackintosh’ own as the gardener hurried into the post-office.

“What on earth did you put in the telegram, Pons?”

“Something he could not resist, Parker. I appealed to his vanity.”

And with that I had to be content as Mackintosh soon returned and in a few moments we were rattling on our way back to Glen Affric. Pons was silent for most of the journey, only breaking into conversation once.

“Tell me,” he said to Mackintosh when we were within a mile or two of our destination. “Does Miss Hayling have a radio at the house?”

The driver glanced at him in surprise.

“Oh, yes, sir. There are two at the main house and I myself have one at my cottage.”

“Excellent. You did not listen to the weather forecast this morning, by any chance?”

“Indeed I did, Mr Pons. Such things are vital to country folk in areas like this.”

Pons smiled faintly, taking the pipe from his mouth.

“Do you happen to remember what was predicted for Scotland?”

The gardener hunched his shoulders, his eyes fixed forward over the pony’s back.

“Fine in the morning with local mist in mid-afternoon, thickening at nightfall.”

“Good,” said Pons with satisfaction.

He rubbed his hands.

“It is certainly fine this morning. They might be right for once, eh, Parker?”

“Of course, Pons,” I agreed. “But I fail to take the point.”

“It would not be the first time,” said he, with a twinkle in his eye. “It was just a notion which had occurred to me when sending the telegram, but it could be a vital one. I would stake my life that the Colonel would go for rifles. He is a crack-shot and a master of the stalk.”

“Really, Pons…” I began when we started our steep descent of the hill near the stream, and we had to alight to assist the pony. Our arrival at the house had been noted and Miss Hayling herself stood on the front steps to greet us. She looked pale but her manner was collected.

“A friend has just telephoned from the village to say that Mungo Ferguson is dead.”

She put her hand impulsively on my companion’s arm.

“Oh, Mr Pons, what does it mean? Goodness knows I have no reason to mourn his death but it is a dreadful thing nevertheless.”

“Your sentiments do you credit, Miss Hayling,” said Pons, a kindly look in his eyes. “But unless I miss my guess this business will soon be over. I must just ask you to be patient a little longer.”

“But what does it all mean, Mr Pons?”

“It means that Colonel McDonald will be here shortly,” said Pons sombrely. “I have sent him a telegram this morning which should resolve the business.”

There was a look of shock in the girl’s eyes but she forbore to question my companion further.

“No doubt you know best, Mr Pons. In the meantime lunch is waiting.”

And she led the way into the house.

11

All through lunch Pons had been silent and abstracted and he sat watching the windows which commanded the driveway as though he expected something to materialise at any minute. The sun shone brightly despite the cold and threw the shadows of the mullioned windows across the cheerful, panelled room in which we ate.

The girl had been restrained though her curiosity was obvious and we had chatted desultorily on a number of mundane topics. Afterwards, we took coffee in a small room which overlooked the front porch. We had eaten early and it was still only a quarter to one when I became aware of Mackintosh’ sturdy form hovering on the front steps. I glanced at Pons and realised instantly that the gardener had taken up his position on my friend’s instructions. He took the pipe from his mouth and addressed himself to our hostess.

“Miss Hayling, you have been extraordinarily patient and trusting in the extreme. In all my long experience I have known few persons of your sex who have exhibited such courage and character.”

The short speech was an unusual one for Pons and I saw the girl flush with pleasure while Mrs McRae shot a glance of approval at Pons.

“I know you have my welfare at heart, Mr Pons,” the girl said in a low voice. “I am content to leave the explanations for later.”

“You shall have them in full, Miss Hayling,” said Pons. “In the meantime I shall have to ask you to trust me a little longer. I would like you and Mr and Mrs McRae to withdraw to the upper floors of the house and leave this matter to Dr Parker and myself.”

“By all means, Mr Pons.”

The girl got up obediently and followed the housekeeper out of the room.

“What on earth, Pons…” I was beginning when my friend rose to his feet with astonishingly alacrity and put his hand on my arm.

“Ah, he has risen to the bait, Parker.”

I followed his glance through the window to find the shimmering image of a white Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost purring to a stop in front of the main entrance. By the time Pons and I had joined Mackintosh a tall, military figure was descending.

“Just stay within earshot, if you please,” said Pons to Mackintosh sotto voce and the burly gardener withdrew a dozen paces or so to the bottom of the steps.

There was no sound in all the great park except for the cawing of rooks in some ancient elms in the distance and the measured tread of feet in the gravel as the tall figure came toward us. I don’t know what I had expected but the actuality was a shock. A smartly-dressed but almost emaciated old man with a aunt face, hook-nose and iron-grey moustache. The only things alive in the dead white face were the burning yellow eyes which were fixed unwinkingly upon Pons. Colonel McDonald came to a halt at the foot of the steps, without a glance at myself or the gardener.

“Well, Mr Pons,” he said in a low, soft voice. “We meet at last.”

“We do indeed, Colonel,” said my companion, descending the steps so that they were on the level, almost face to face.

“You have not wasted much time on receipt of my telegram.”

“The opportunity was too good to miss,” said the other in the same low, unemotional voice. “You have not lost your dexterity in dealing with my little toys.”

“Neither you your ingenuity, Colonel. Spring catches operating surprises were always your specialty, were they not.”

A muscle started fretting in the Colonel’s cheek but otherwise he and Pons might have been calmly discussing stock-market prices.

“You have been interfering with my operations, Mr Pons. And when you come upon my own home ground I find it intolerable.”

Solar Pons shrugged.

“It was a clumsy business, having the wreckage of the dogcart burned. Though I have no doubt I should have discovered that the shafts had been sawn through.”

The Colonel nodded absently.

“That was a tactical error on Ferguson’s part.”

“But one you have soon put right,” Pons observed. McDonald gave a harsh, mirthless laugh.

“I heard about the accident just before I left to come here. A tragic business.”

“Murder is always tragic,” said Solar Pons evenly.

McDonald was still standing stock-still but now the muscle in his cheek was twitching almost uncontrollably. That and his blazing eyes were the only indications of the anger within.

“Strong words, Mr Pons,” he said in that uncannily soft voice. “Strong words. And ones you are going to find difficult to prove.”

“I am not trying to prove them,” said Pons with a faint smile. “I am merely speaking my thoughts aloud.”

The Colonel nodded again, his yellow eyes now glancing from me to Mackintosh.

“Your telegram implied a settlement between us, Mr Pons. I am in agreement.”

“I knew I could rely upon you,” said Solar Pons slowly. “Your courage has never been in question.”

Colonel McDonald drew himself up stiffly and bowed slightly at the compliment.

“Perhaps we could walk to the car.”

“You have no objection to my friend and colleague, Dr Parker, accompanying us?”

“By no means, Mr Pons. I am quite alone.”

I hurried down the steps and followed as the two men strolled toward the white Rolls-Royce. The Colonel opened the spring-loaded boot which came up gently with a scarcely audible click. Within I could see two long leather cases.

“Matched sporting rifles, Mr Pons. Neither of us will be at a disadvantage. You accept the challenge?”

“Certainly. After all, it was I who issued it.”

As the import of their words sank into my brain I found my tongue. “This is madness, Pons! Are you suggesting something as barbaric as a duel? The Colonel is a crack-shot and an experienced stalker.”

“I am well aware of that, Parker. I am not entirely a novice myself with the sporting rifle.”

The Colonel bowed again, reluctant admiration on his face. “Then you accept, sir?”

“Most certainly. But on certain conditions.”

“And those are?”

“That Dr Parker be allowed to accompany me to act as my second — and see fair play. You to have a companion also. Unarmed I might add.”

The Colonel chuckled.

“By all means. I shall not need a companion for I would find him a hindrance. The only conditions of mine are time, place and the question of ammunition.”

Solar Pons looked steadily at the other.

“Ammunition?”

“Five rounds each. No more, no less. That should be ample to settle the matter.”

“Agreed. And the time and place?”

McDonald looked up at the sun.

“It is now one-thirty P.M. Darkness comes down swiftly in these latitudes. Both parties to be in position on the field by not later than two-thirty.”

Pons nodded.

“Agreed. And the venue?”

McDonald slid out one of the leather cases and handed it to Pons before closing the boot. He glanced across at Mackintosh.

“There is a rock called The Sentinel in the glen near the edge of Miss Haylin’s property just before the land rises to the skirts of Ben Affric.”

“Ah, the mountain beyond the glen. I will find it.”

“The gardener will tell you how to get to it. It is only a mile or so from here. I will meet you there. Until two-thirty, then.” “Until two-thirty.”

We waited in silence as the Colonel got behind the wheel. The Rolls-Royce glided sedately round the concourse and disappeared down the drive, a thin plume of exhaust smoke hanging behind it in the frosty air. Pons was already opening the case, looking at the sleek, polished rifle within. He broke open the breech.

“Fortunately, I am familiar with this model. It is a beauty. One of a matched pair, as McDonald said. The Colonel goes in for nothing but the best. There are five cartridges, as agreed.”

“This is madness, Pons,” I repeated, looking at the stolid form of Mackintosh as if for support. “I will not be a party to murder.”

“Tut, Parker,” said Pons chidingly. “You exaggerate, as usual. I do not think it will be as bad as that.”

He glanced up at the sun.

“Come, we must hurry. I have a few preparations to make before we reach the killing-ground.”

12

We walked uphill in silence, the sun throwing long shadows on the heather, a faint mist rising, the beauty of the blue-green mass of Ben Affric in the distance making our sombre errand seem like some wild figment of imagination. I still could not quite believe the whole incredible circumstance and walked in silence across the rough ground behind Pons, sick at heart and afraid for my friend.

Pons must have sensed my mood for he looked back at me with a smile, the harshness of the sunlight strongly accentuating the clear-minted lines of his face.

“My dear Parker. You look as though you are on your way to a funeral. Did I not tell you that things were not so serious?

“That is all very well, Pons,” I said. “But there is likely to be a bloody outcome to this business. How do you know that Colonel McDonald will keep his word. He is sure to be up to some treachery.”

“I am relying on it, Parker,” said Pons gravely, taking his pipe-stem from his mouth. “I have not come unprepared.”

He patted the large canvas bag he carried as he spoke. I myself had the loaded rifle McDonald had left with us, slung over my shoulder by the strap and I was finding our progress over the rough terrain rather heavy going. It had now turned two o’clock and we had cleared Miss Hayling’s estate and the humped mass of the mountain Ben Affric threw a vast shadow over the glen before us, so that it seemed as though we were advancing into the valley of the shadow. I looked at my companion in surprise.

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

He chuckled.

“All will be made clear to you shortly, Parker. Ah, that must be The Sentinel.”

I followed his gaze and saw the great hump of rock rising from the plain before us. Already, its base was lost amid the haze.

“What do you intend to do, Pons?”

“Indulge in a little deception, Parker. Normally, I would abide by the rules but I have myself no compunction in being devious when dealing with such a person as McDonald.”

We both saved our breath for the next ten minutes, as the going was difficult underfoot. Slowly the huge splinter of granite set in the middle of the lonely glen grew before us. By twenty-past two we were only a few hundred yards off.

“There is no sign of McDonald, Pons,” I observed as we stumbled the last few yards across the boulder-littered ground.

“I would not expect there to be, Parker. Unless I miss my guess he is up on the skirt of the mountain there, where the ravine runs, watching us through glasses. That would be a perfect vantage-point.”

“Good heavens, Pons!”

“There is no danger for the moment, Parker. The Colonel will not make his move until he is absolutely certain.”

We were within the shadow of the rock now and scrambled, by means of broad ledges to a position just below the top. As Pons had hinted the place was empty and there was no sign of the Colonel. It was bitterly cold here in the shadow and the surface of the granite was damp and slippery. I put down the case and busied myself in unstrapping it and removing the rifle. Pons had his back to me as he knelt and rummaged in the canvas bag he had brought.

When I turned I was amazed to see what appeared to be a dummy, dressed in old tweeds. Pons produced a crumpled deer-stalker and jammed it on the figure’s head. He surveyed it critically.

“I think that will do nicely, Parker.”

“But what are you doing, Pons?”

“With the aid of a few bolsters borrowed from Mrs McRae and an old suit of her husband’s I am making a passable facsimile of myself. I think it will pass muster, even through the Colonel’s glasses, if I pull the hat well down.”

Pons put the finishing touches to his creation and then carried it to a position a few feet below the ridge of the rock. Then he cautiously hoisted it there, with its back to the mountain, and pinned it with a dead branch he had broken from a stunted tree which projected from the rocks just below the sky-line. It stood up well and the silhouette so presented must have been visible for miles around. Pons dusted his hands in satisfaction and then came back to me.

“It is almost half-past two, Parker. I do not think we shall have long to wait.”

He took the rifle from me and went cautiously back. In a niche in the rock below the summit, where I joined him a few moments later, I found I could see right up the glen to where the purple-brown mass of Ben Affric was becoming slowly rinsed with haze. Nothing moved in all the vast expanse of the glen before us.

“You see, Parker,” said Pons calmly. “Colonel McDonald never had the slightest intention of keeping this appointment. At least in the way we intended.”

No sooner had he spoken than there came a bright flash from the sombre darkness of the mountain before us and a moment later the echoing crash of a high-powered rifle which thundered about the glen. At almost the same instant the tweed-clad figure which sat on the summit of the rock above us somersaulted in the air and landed some yards from us. Feathers floated down after it. I ran across and was stupefied to see the large hole torn in the material of McRae’s jacket.

“It would have been right through the heart, Pons!”

“Would it not, Parker.

Solar Pons was lying in the niche of the rock, his keen right eye sighting along the rifle, his cheek close in to the stock.

“The flash came from the head of the ravine. Ah, there he is!”

He squeezed the trigger gently and the rifle cracked, the stock jerking against his cheek while blue smoke curled from the breech and barrel.

“You have not killed him, Pons!”

My friend looked at me with a grim smile.

“Hardly, Parker. I have no wish to appear as the principal figure in a murder trial. I fired to frighten him. As near as I can judge the bullet struck the rocks a dozen feet away from him.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the most dreadful cry sounded from the head of the glen and went echoing round the heights. Pons started to his feet but I put my hand on his arm.

“Careful, Pons! It may be a trap to lure us out. He cannot be wounded and we shall be at his mercy in the open.”

Solar Pons smiled.

“His rifle is useless now, Parker. The weather is closing in. I relied on it in my calculations of the risk involved.”

I soon saw what he meant. Already, as we had moved off The Sentinel heavy banks of mist were gathering around the skirts of the mountain.

“So that was why you asked Mackintosh about the weather, Pons?”

“Naturally, Parker. I do not believe in taking unnecessary chances in face of such an enemy. It is no bad thing to enlist the help of nature when possible.”

Pons was scrambling down the base of the rock now and I followed, carrying the rifle, which he had cast aside. As I gained the ground I could see Pons striding away at a great pace among the scree and boulders. By dint of great effort I caught up with him and we went forward side by side through the rapidly thickening mist.

As we mounted up the flank of Ben Affric the air grew ever more raw and dank. The mist was breast-high now and Pons guided us over toward the right of the mountain.

“Be careful, Pons. We are coming near the area of the ravine.”

“I am well aware of that, Parker. I am endeavouring to memorise the salient features of the terrain before the weather closes down completely.”

Even as he spoke we seemed to walk into an impenetrable white wall. A few yards behind us the sun had been shining; now, it was almost as though we were in the middle of the night, as the great fog-bank rolled on, borne inexorably forward from the heights above by the wind at its tail. Instinctively I had faltered, but Pons’ hand was on my elbow, guiding me on as though all were daylight and absolutely clear to him.

“It is only a few yards now, Parker. Please be extremely careful. Ah, here we are!”

A few seconds later I saw what his keen eyes had already noted; the matching rifle to the one I carried was lying on the damp rock floor of the gully we had been mounting. On top of a flat boulder from which McDonald had obviously fired, were four spare cartridges.

“At least the Colonel kept his word in one respect,” said Pons grudgingly. “Keep behind me and mind your footing.”

He went forward slowly and I followed, anxious not to lose him for the mist had grown remarkably thick. Our journey did not take long. After only a few yards the terrain shelved steeply on to slippery rock. Pons stopped and held up his hand.

“We can go no farther, Parker. This is the edge of the ravine.”

As he spoke there came a terrible groan from the chasm before us; the sound was so unexpected that I felt an indescribable thrill of horror run through me. Pons’ reaction filled me with alarm. He went forward on the steep slope and lay down, supporting himself by a small nodule of rock which rose from the precipitous surface.

“For heaven’s sake be careful, Pons!”

“If you would come here and hold my legs, Parker, I would be obliged,” he said in a low, almost gentle voice. “And pass me the rifle if you would be so good.”

I did as he bade and came forward, lying down in a flat place by a boulder and leaning forward to grasp his ankles. Pons was slowly extending the rifle and its sling before him.

“My shot startled him and he obviously slipped into the ravine,” he said musingly.

At that moment there was a sudden breeze and the mist parted briefly. I think I shall never forget the sight it revealed. The Colonel’s gaunt face with the burning yellow eyes glaring savagely over the iron-grey moustache was suspended in the blackness. He did not see me, for his intense, malevolent gaze was fixed entirely on Pons. I could see only his head and the upper part of his shoulders; his body must have been hanging almost vertically in space.

His fingers were frenziedly locked in a clump of heather which was growing from a crevice in the rocks in front of him. I could see now where his heels had scored a distinct passage in the damp, mossy surface of the gorge. Inch by inch Pons advanced the rifle toward him. Pons’ arms were extended to the limit in front of him and I felt his ankles vibrate beneath my hands.

The end of the rifle sling was still a foot short. The Colonel opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it with a snap. Little flecks of saliva dribbled down his chin. There was a mixture of anger, pain and regret in his eyes. Then the stems of the heather tore out with a convulsive movement and the head and arms whipped backward out of sight into the mist.

The dreadful cry which echoed and swelled from that terrible abyss I hear still in my dreams to this day.

Then it was cut off abruptly and we heard the sickening impact of broken flesh on rock as the body bounced from boulder to boulder until the sound died away in the distance. For a long time there was nothing but the patter of scree and small rocks rattling down the sombre depths.

Pons slowly dragged himself back to safety. He was white and trembling. Despite his efforts the rifle slid over to join its owner in the chasm below. I got up and we two sat on the edge of a boulder for several minutes to collect ourselves. Pons lit his pipe and soon had it drawing comfortably, his head wreathed in tobacco smoke.

“Well, Parker,” he said eventually. “Poetic justice, though I would not have had it happen like that.”

“You could not have helped it, Pons,” I said. “That dreadful creature would have murdered you in cold blood.”

He nodded without speaking, his eyes hooded and brooding as he stared into the misty deep before us.

“Fate is unpredictable, Parker,” he observed presently. “Unless I miss my guess it is somewhere hereabouts that McDonald’s tool Mungo Ferguson met his end.”

I stared at him, still too shocked to say anything. He looked at me sympathetically and roused himself.

“We must get back and inform the police, my dear fellow.” I nodded, my thoughts still elsewhere.

“What did you put in that telegram, Pons?”

“THIS MATTER MUST BE SETTLED BETWEEN US. YOUR TERMS OR MINE. PONS. I knew he could not resist the challenge. I accepted his terms, with the result we have seen.”

Pons sighed and I looked at him sharply.

“Unfortunately there was little in the case which appealed to my ratiocinative instincts, but it was not without interest. And it has disposed of one of the most dangerous opponents I have ever come up against.”

I nodded.

“The Colonel’s was an ingenious scheme, Pons. The shale-oil report was a stroke of genius.”

“Was it not, Parker.”

Solar Pons stared at me with a far-away look on his clear-minted features.

“Who knows, Parker, there may well be oil beneath Scottish soil and Scottish seas. Whether it will come in our time is another matter. We shall have to wait and see.”

He turned abruptly on his heel.

“Now we have a tidy step before us and it will soon be dark. And I really owe a most gallant young lady some detailed explanation.”