The Man from the Clouds | Page 9

the sunshine. It was now about ten o'clock
on a flawless August morning, and not easily shall I forget the picture
of that blue sea gently heaving far out to a bright horizon, and the
semi-circle of white sand fringing the little cove, and the glimpse of
green and smiling inland country, and the group of low grey farm
buildings just out of reach of the wash of the waves. Whatever part of
the world it might be, I felt entirely satisfied with it.
I stood for a few minutes gazing absently out to sea, and rehearsing in
my mind my plan of campaign. My voice, manners and conduct must
be such that if by some stroke of luck I actually fell in with my friend
of last night or one of his confederates they would assume I was a
friend and at least give me a nod, wink, password, or something to test
me--and I vowed I would overlook nothing suspicious this time.
If, however, as was unfortunately far more likely, I met mere honest
folk, they would quickly spread the news that a suspicious stranger was
in the neighbourhood, and surely the report would reach at least one of
the gang (for I confidently assumed a gang), and they would make it
their business to seek me out. Finally I decided I had no time to waste,
for several reasons. Through the clucking hens I strolled across to the
dwelling house and there in the kitchen I found the mother, one of the
pink-cheeked daughters, and the idiot son. They set about getting me
some breakfast, and a few minutes later in came the father and another
son, a strapping fellow not in the least resembling the idiot, and shortly
afterwards appeared the other daughter.
I gave them my proper name, Roger Merton, since it was just the sort

of ultra English name which a disguised Hun would adopt, and I
learned that theirs was Scollay:--Peter Scollay, the father, Mrs. Scollay,
Peter, the younger, Maggie, and Jane; besides Jock, the idiot. I was
excessively affable, and they were not openly cool, but I noticed with
satisfaction that they were far from demonstrative, with the marked
exception of Jock who burst into several very loud and friendly laughs
on extremely small provocation. He was horrid to look at, but I could
not help feeling rather friendly towards the only member of the
household who exhibited a glimpse of geniality, even though I was
doing my level best to chill them.
As for the others, Peter Scollay the senior was a big tawny-bearded
fellow, undeniably handsome despite one small defect. His eyes were a
trifle too hard and cautious, and in one of them was a distinct cast.
Curiously enough, his wife also had a slight cast, and so it was not
surprising to see a trace of this in Peter junior and his red-cheeked
sisters. Jock, however, seemed to have been endowed with imbecility
instead of a cast. Apart from him, they were all good-looking, despite
the family defect; and they were all very reticent this morning. I
seemed indeed to trace the father's wariness as well as the cast in each
pair of eyes that furtively studied me.
"And your very beautiful island," I enquired, in guttural accents that
would have made me flee for the police instantly, had I been in their
shoes, "so pleasantly situated in the sea--what is its name?"
They looked a little astonished, as well they might, and then in dry
accents the father replied, "Ransay."
"Ransay?" I repeated, and then all at once I realised where I was.
Ransay was one of the northern isles of that not unknown archipelago
which at the present moment it is safer to leave unnamed. Or perhaps
for purposes of reference one may call it The Windy Isles. Somewhere
in the same archipelago, twenty or thirty miles to the south'ard, was a
particularly important naval base and I began to realise what I had
stumbled up against.
In those early days of the war one heard a great many tales of spies and

spying, but many of them were so palpably absurd and there was as yet
such a total lack of evidence to support any one of them, that I--like a
good many other people--felt sceptical of the whole thing. The
distinguished General in German pay, the well known member of the
Cabinet in hourly communication with the Kaiser, the group of German
strategists working in the cellars of a West End London mansion, and
all the rest of the early legends had made even the very moderately
sensible extremely chary of believing anything we heard. But I thought
very hard and seriously now. A real spy--seen and heard--actually
living in the Isle of Ransay, in the