Chapter 2

Hugh, you’re full of surprises. I thought only aged creatures
like me still read Kipling. I can match you--

“‘Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels fastest who travels alone.’

Which way are you travelling, Hugh, with that innocent face of yours?”

“Judging by what you tell me of the warlocks of Carnglass, down to
Gehenna, Duncan.” Then the elevator came, and the club, and the dinner,
and the brandy. That night Logan dreamed of a Carnglass Cutty Sark
capering round Carnglass Cross. And the next night he was aboard the
plane to Prestwick.

2

On a wet and windy morning, Logan descended from the plane at
Prestwick. Once past the immigration officers, he took a taxi across
the moors to Glasgow. Now and then they sped past rows of white-harled
Scots cottages, some empty and far gone in decay. The heather and
gorse by the roadside called to Hugh Logan. He had walked the Pentland
Hills, and the Lammermuirs, in his Edinburgh years--sleeping in the
open, sometimes, when he had been a university student. The law-office
and the courtroom seemed remote in time and space, as he sat in this
speeding Rolls; and he indulged the fancy that perhaps he ought never
to have taken the bar-examination.

In some ways, those savage months of pushing northward in Okinawa had
been the best of his life. The law was safe, and might make him famous;
yet there came hours, now and again, when Logan thought he ought to
have settled for a life of risk, a life lived as if every moment might
be the last.

The cab-driver was saying something. “A foul day, sir. There’ll be
a storm out tae sea, sir. Spring’s late to Scotland this year.” The
driver never had heard of Carnglass, Logan found. Now they were coming
into the ugly sprawl of outlying Glasgow council-houses. And then
the great grimy city closed upon them, and soon Logan was getting out
before Todd’s Hotel in India Street, a building of blackened white
granite.

At Todd’s Hotel, the taffy-haired little receptionist in the tight
black dress never had heard of Carnglass. Having left his suitcase in
his room, Logan came down again to inquire of the manager. That civil
gentleman, indeed, had heard of Carnglass; but he never had known
anyone to go there. And no messages from Lady MacAskival or Mr. Lagg
were awaiting Logan. He was not altogether surprised: eccentricity and
delay were to be expected in that quarter; he suspected that he might
have to make his way independently to the island.

He might telephone or telegraph, though, to learn whether the yacht
or launch had been sent for him, and whether he would be welcome at
the Old House. It was no use, he soon discovered: the information
operator on the telephone, after lengthy consultation with someone at
the Glasgow central exchange, informed Logan that there was no cable
laid to Carnglass, and that no way of sending messages to the island
was known, there being no wireless there recorded in the exchange’s
books, except by post. Logan called the central postoffice. Letters
and parcels for Carnglass, it appeared, and Daldour too, were sent
by MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale, in South Uist, where they
were called for as anyone from those islands, or their agents, might
happen to put into Loch Boisdale. How long would an express letter
take? It was impossible to say: it might not reach Carnglass for some
days, depending upon whether any boat should happen to call at Loch
Boisdale. Also, however, letters for those islands sometimes were left
with an agent of the Carnglass factor, here in Glasgow, depending upon
instructions from Carnglass. Who was this agent of the factor? That
information the postal authorities were not authorized to give out.

But Logan was a patient man. After lunch, he returned to his room
and dressed in a heavy suit that had been made for him during his
university years: of indestructible Harris tweed, the suit still fitted
tolerably well. Rain was coming down heavily now, so this suit was
made for the climate. He had with him a thorn stick, a memento also
of Edinburgh days; it might be useful for hill-walking in Carnglass,
should there be time for that. The little receptionist, who smiled
fondly upon Logan, recommended a travel-agent in Argyle Street; so
Logan took a cab there.

Before entering the door of Moore Brothers, Travel Agents, Ltd.,
Founded 1887, he stopped at a shop adjacent and bought an oilskin cape,
which probably would be the thing to wear in Carnglass; he had it sent
to Todd’s Hotel. Then he went up to the counter in Moore’s, where an
eager youth--with a manner the British call “smarmy”--proceeded to set
his hand on a pile of tour-folders.

But the eager youth had no notion of how a gentleman might find his
way to Carnglass. He had special de luxe tours to Iona and Skye to
offer; these were much better-known islands than Carnglass, he told the
gentleman. No one ever went to Carnglass. Logan asked for the manager.

This old man with steel spectacles at the end of his nose could suggest
only that the gentleman take MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale. From
South Uist, drifters and trawlers sometimes coasted off Daldour; there
was no harbour in Daldour, but he had heard that the islanders--“verra
queer folk, sir”--sometimes launched a boat and came alongside a
drifter. He did not know how anyone contrived to live in Daldour; it
was Ultima Thule. As for Carnglass, he had been told landing never was
permitted. Oh, the gentleman was invited? An American? Then no doubt it
would be possible. Perhaps the people in Daldour could take him across
the sound in their boat. The manager would be glad to sell the American
gentleman a first-class steamer ticket to Loch Boisdale, but he could
do no more. And a first-class railway ticket from Glasgow to Oban: that
was where one boarded MacBrayne’s steamers. This month, ordinarily,
there were plane flights three times a week to South Uist; but the
weather had been so wretched for the past week that flights had been
cancelled, and it might be two or three or four days before they could
resume.

Logan bought his railway and steamer tickets. As he turned to go, the
manager had an afterthought. “One moment, sir. Meg, d’ye mind the
card that man left? The man that spoke with me concerning Carnglass?”
Aye, Meg--a stocky red-faced lass in her teens--minded it; she put it
bashfully into the young American gentleman’s hand. “Aye, sir, I had
near forgot,” the manager said, “but this man came in a month gone and
said that should any gentleman inquire after Carnglass, he might put
him in the way of a passage.”

It was a soiled card with crumpled corners, cheaply printed, and it
read, “James Dowie, Commission Agent. 5 Mutto’s Wynd, Gallowgate.”

“How far is Gallowgate?” Logan asked.

The old manager drew in his lower lip and then protruded it
meditatively. “Why, sir, the Gallowgate’s far above the Tron. And it’s
late in the day. Would tomorrow do as well, sir?”

“No,” said Logan, “I’m usually in a hurry. Surely a taxi could take me
there in ten minutes?”

The manager fumbled with his spectacles. “Between ourselves, now, sir,
the Gallowgate’s not the place for an American gentleman by himself,
with the night coming on. Mind ye, sir, I’ve had no trouble of my
own in the Gallowgate. But this Mutto’s Wynd will be some wee vennel
or passage, and dark. Ye’ve heard tell of Teddy Boys and such? Aye.
Well, if ye must go, take a cab, sir; and make the driver wait for ye.
The man that left this card--he would be a bookie, I think. Nothing
against him, sir, nothing whatsoever. And the chief constable has done
fine work in the Gallowgate and the Gorbals, verra gude work. They
were worse when I was a lad. But were I yourself, sir, I wouldna stop
in a pub there. In the Gallowgate, the folk think all Americans are
millionaires. Would it were true, sir? Ha, ha. Aye, would it were true.”

Going into the washroom at the travel-agency, Logan took out of his
pockets his passport, his traveller’s checks, and most of the pound
notes he had got at the hotel desk. He put them into the leather
money-belt he wore beneath his shirt. Logan had been around, though
most people wouldn’t credit it, apparently, when they looked at his
face; and he had the thorn stick with him. Then he took a cab to
Mutto’s Wynd, in the Gallowgate.

Mutto’s Wynd turning out too narrow for any motorcar, the driver
parked the cab at the mouth of the entry. In Mutto’s Wynd, most of the
buildings were derelict, and some unroofed, since the Scots pay no
taxes on roofless buildings. Even for smoke-grimed Glasgow, Mutto’s
Wynd was very black. The dreary little building that was No. 5 stood
near the mouth of the vennel, and the cab would be almost within call.

Although the windows of No. 5 seemed not to have been washed this
decade, a freshly-painted sign nailed above the door read “J. Dowie,
Commission Agent.” Logan gave the driver a pound note. “Keep the
change,” Logan said, “but wait for me.” The driver sighed, looking
uneasily down the wynd. Three doors beyond, there projected the sign of
a public house, the Dun Stirk. “But stay near the cab.”

“O aye,” the driver grunted, “ye needna teach this auld dog new
tricks.” Logan rapped at the battered door of No. 5.

Quite promptly, a heavy-jowled little man in a sagging business-suit
and a soiled old cap opened that door. “Come in, mon,” he said. “Ye’ll
be thinkin’ o’ the pool?” The little low room--this building, elderly
for rebuilt Glasgow, seemed once to have been a stable--contained a
decrepit desk and three straight chairs; the walls, long ago, had been
painted cream-color. The little man spoke the thickest Glasgow speech,
with its clipped words and rolled r’s.

“Mr. Dowie?” Aye, he was Mr. Dowie. “Mr. Dowie, I’ve been told you
might know of a way to get to Carnglass.”

Dowie, sucking in his fat cheeks, looked long and slyly at Logan. “Tak’
a chair, mon. Ye’ll no be frae these parts?”

Logan sat. “I’m an American, Mr. Dowie, with business in Carnglass.”

Dowie leaned against the desk. “An’ what wud that business be?”

“I’m representing my principal.”

“Weel, then, Mr. American, ye’ll no object if I draw the curtains.”
Dowie pulled heavy blanket-drapes across the filthy glass; he bolted
the door. Logan sat easily on the rickety chair. “If it be Carnglass,”
said Dowie, “that ye mean tae see, then ye’ll ken Tam Lagg?”

“The factor. Yes, we’ve corresponded with him.”

“Aye, just so. And ye’ll ken Dr. Jackman?” Here Dowie, stooping
slightly, looked Logan in the eyes.

“No, Mr. Dowie, I don’t know any Dr. Jackman.”

“Ye dinna ken Jackman? Noo think o’ this, Mr. American: I’m official
agent o’ Tam Lagg. Ye’ve no need to keep matters frae me. What might
your name be?”

“Hugh Logan. I’m to see Lady MacAskival.”

“O aye. Lady MacAskival. She’s no keepin’ verra weel, ye ken.”

“So I understand.”

“No weel enough for chit-chat, Mr. Logan.” Dowie nodded mournfully.
“And noo ye’re in auld Scotland, ye’ll tak’ a trip to Rabbie Burns’
country?”

“I’ve only time for a Carnglass trip.”

“Rabbie Burns’ country is Alloway and Ayr, ye ken, Mr. Logan. A braw
poet, Rabbie Bums. ‘A mon’s a mon for a’ that’--eh, Mr. Logan?” An
unconvincing smile came suddenly over Dowie’s sodden face, and he
clapped a dirty hand on Logan’s shoulder, in token of comradeship.
Logan did not move or smile.

“I suppose what Burns meant, Mr. Dowie, is that worth and genius matter
more than rank--or as much, anyway. I don’t know that he had Glasgow
bookies in mind.”

“O aye,” Dowie muttered, removing his hand. He scowled uneasily, and
then brightened artificially again. “O aye. I see ye’re a card, Mr.
Logan. Aye, a poet o’ the first water, Rabbie Burns. But ye’ve fine
writers in the States, too. Political writers. Ye’ll ken are or twa o’
them?”

Logan shook his head. “I don’t know a single political writer, Mr.
Dowie.”

“And ye’ll no ken Dr. Jackman?”

“This literary conversation is very pleasant, Mr. Dowie,” Logan said.
“But do you know of a ship or a launch that will take me to Carnglass?”

Dowie sat down at the desk and pulled open a drawer. “Noo your
principal, Mr. Logan--he’ll be Mr. Duncan MacAskival?”

Over the edge of the open drawer, a cablegram form was just visible.
“Then you’re the agent for forwarding the post to Carnglass, Mr. Dowie.”

“Wha’ loon told ye that?”

“Has Lady MacAskival received our cables?”

“Wud I be a miracle-mon, Mr. Logan? I canna send word tae Carnglass by
Tellie--by TV, ye Yanks say. And wha’ wi’ the high seas, there’s no
boat that wud put oot for Daldour nor Carnglass these three days syne.”

“Then I suppose Lady MacAskival’s not expecting me?”

“Ye can suppose wha’ ye like, Mr. Logan.”

“When can I get passage from Glasgow to Carnglass?”

“Na, na, mon, I’m thinkin’ there’ll be no boat for Carnglass.” Dowie
rested his chin in his pudgy hand. His eyes swept over Logan with
that look of low cunning Logan had seen, so often, in malingering or
thieving soldiers. “But bide a wee, Mr. Logan: we’ll fetch a cup o’
tea for ye while ye’re here. Jeanie! Jeanie!” He shouted toward a back
room. “Dinna fret, Mr. Logan: Jeanie’s my auld wifie. Jeanie! A cup o’
tea for a Yank gentleman!”

Around a door-jamb peered a worn face. Logan rose. “Na, na, Mr. Logan,
sit ye doon: it’s but Jeanie. Jeanie, chat wi’ the Yank gentleman while
I see wha’ can be done to obleege him.” Dowie slipped into the back
room at the moment Jeanie entered. Taking a chair, she sat staring
dully at the grimy floor, quite silent.

“Rather a clammy day, Mrs. Dowie.” Mrs. Dowie, who had a scarf tied
round her head, said nothing at all. Dowie seemed to be telephoning
from the back room; and Logan, an old hand at snapping up scraps of
whispered evidence, contrived to make out a few words:

“Aye, Jock, a Yank, but no in Yank’s clothes. Quick, noo.” The phone
was hung up, and Dowie returned, that fixed smile across his face.
“Jeanie! Hae ye no been entertainin’ the gentleman? Fetch the tea,
lass.”

Jeanie went. “Well, now, Mr. Dowie,” Logan said, “have you found
something for me?”

“Ye wudna wish to go where they’ll no be expectin’ ye, wud ye, sir?
And Lady MacAskival’s ower auld for company. Tak’ the plane home, Mr.
Logan. Ye’ll do no business in Carnglass.”

“If you’ll do nothing for me, Dowie, I’ll go elsewhere. It’s getting
late.”

The look of triumphant cunning was back in Dowie’s eyes. “Aye, but the
tea, Mr. Logan; bide for the tea.” Jeanie returned with a wooden tray,
a teapot under a cozy, and three cups. Logan stood up.

“I’m always in a hurry, Dowie. Thank you, Mrs. Dowie, but I haven’t
time for tea.” There seemed to be voices raised outside in the wynd,
now, and a heavy thud, rather as if someone had kicked the side of an
automobile. “Good day to you.”

“But first, man,” said Dowie, sidling between Logan and the street
door, “we’ll shake hands a’ roun’, should auld acquaintance be forgot.”
Logan briefly took Dowie’s hand, and then Jeanie’s. “And ye’ll confess,
Mr. Logan, that ye came here o’ your ain free will, an’ no invitation.”
Logan agreed. “Ye heard, Jeanie,” Dowie muttered. “Ye’re a witness.”
In the street beyond the mouth of the wynd, a motor started, and Logan
thought he heard a car drive away.

“That may be my taxi leaving,” Logan said. He had his stick in his hand.

“Weel, noo, Mr. American,” Dowie told him, with what possibly was
intended for a convivial smile, “I’m sorry I couldna serve ye. Cheerio
the noo. I’ll open the door for ye.” He did. And the second Logan
stepped out, the door was slammed behind him and bolted.

Mutto’s Wynd was shadowy. Yes, the taxi had gone; and lounging against
the wall of No. 5 were four men. Logan faced them. They were very young
roughs, three of them, with the greasy sideburns and the pimpled faces
that went, in their sort, with a diet of fish and chips. The fourth
man, a big lank fellow, older, wore a wide leather belt round his
waist, and he had a very nasty smirk. By way of obstacle, the lank man
thrust out a long leg.

“Hello, Yank,” the lank man said. The other three came slowly round
Logan.

“Good evening, friend,” Logan answered. No one else was in the wynd.

“This is the auld Gallowgate, Yank,” the lank man went on. “This was
where they hangit the gallows-craws. We’re gallows-craws, Yank.” He
gave a short, harsh whiskey-laugh, and the three young roughs cackled
in echo. “Ye’ll stand us a dram at the Dun Stirk, Yank?”

“I’m sorry, friend, but I’m in a hurry.” It was quiet and dark in
Mutto’s Wynd.

The lank man smirked. “Damn ye, Yank, ye’ll no be in sic a hurry noo!”
He flung himself toward Logan, one foot going out to trip him.

Logan was ready. He thrust the point of the thorn stick into the lank
man’s belly, and the lank man screamed and stumbled back. But one of
the greasy youngsters had his arm round Logan’s throat, from the back.
Taking the boy’s fingers, Logan bent them backward: the rough yelled
and let go. And now they were on him, all four.

Someone had a long razor. Logan caught the wrist that held it, striking
with the point of his stick at the face behind; the razor dropped to
the cobblestones, but someone else got Logan’s legs out from under him.
He fell heavily on the wet stones, and took a kick in the ribs. Another
razor flashed. Someone had a hand inside Logan’s coat. The mackintosh
he wore hampered him. There came a kick at his head, though a glancing
blow. He had hold at last of someone’s thighs, and was struggling
upward. A kick in the back; and a razor slashed one sleeve of the
mackintosh. All that saved him for the second, Logan knew, was that
they were so close about him as to get in one another’s way.

This was no simple robbery: they meant to slash or cripple him, or
something worse. Another fierce kick in his ribs. The man he had got
by the thighs slipped and fell upon him. And as Logan fought clear, he
heard steel-plated heels running over the cobbles. Someone was helping
him up: a tall policeman. Another policeman was chasing four dim
figures down the wynd.

The policeman who had lifted Logan had a bruise over one eye. “That
was Jock Anderson’s lads, Donald,” he panted to the other policeman,
returned from the unsuccessful chase. “Jock gie me the bash over the
eye.” Logan was getting his breath back. “If ye’ll prefer charges,
sir,” the policeman said to him, “we’ll have warrants out for these
chaps; we know them.”

“There’s small harm done, constable, and I’m leaving Glasgow tomorrow.”

“Did they not take your money, sir?”

Logan felt inside his coat and discovered no billfold. “Yes, but I
hadn’t much with me.”

If the gentleman would come to the station and swear to a complaint,
the second constable told him, they might not have to trouble him
further. “Your cabbie found us, sir; they forced him awa’.” Logan left
a five-pound note with the policeman for the driver. “Were ye in No. 5
yonder, sir?”

Though the constable named Donald knocked hard at the door of No. 5, no
one answered, and the building showed no light. “By this time,” Donald
said, “Jim Dowie’s flitted, and his wife Jeanie with him. And I dinna
think we could charge them. But we’re keepin’ watch on Dowie, sir: a
slippery one.”

Then, in the Gallowgate, they found him another taxi to take him back
to the hotel. And in India Street, Logan washed the grime of Mutto’s
Wynd from himself. Stiff and bruised: but no ribs broken, and the razor
had slashed only the mackintosh. There still was time to go down to
dinner. Afterward, Logan had promised, he would go round to the station
and swear to a statement.

In his hot tub, Logan tried to make sense of what had happened. The
policemen took it for a simple case of pocket-picking, perhaps abetted
by Jim Dowie, Commission Agent. But Logan thought that Dowie had meant
to keep him out of Carnglass--possibly. Who was this Jackman that Dowie
had mentioned? Lady MacAskival’s private physician, or merely some
crony or invention of Dowie’s? And what interest had Dowie, or anyone
else, in keeping him out of Carnglass? And why should Thomas Lagg the
factor have a friend, and mail-forwarder, like J. Dowie? Logan felt
full of fight. He would take the morning train to Oban, and there, no
matter what the price, he’d find passage to Carnglass.

On going down to dinner, Logan stopped at the reception-desk to see if
there might be a message from Carnglass. There was none. Presumably
Dowie really had Duncan MacAskival’s cables in his desk. But also it
was likely that Dowie, during this weather, had no way of getting word
to Carnglass. If so, Logan would be quite unexpected when he landed.
That might be just as well, supposing that Lagg had some connection
with the queer business in Mutto’s Wynd.

As he turned away from the reception-counter, Logan felt himself being
watched. Or were his nerves on edge? He glanced to the right, and a
man’s eyes met his, but dropped away hastily. It was like looking into
the eyes of a bird: little black eyes, darting and quick to flee. The
man, he thought, had been looking at the top leaf of the open hotel
register. As Logan went into the dining room, he looked back; the man
was going out into the street. But he had a good view of him.

Birdlike? The man’s body was anything but birdlike, unless one thought
of a stork. Tall, with shoulders thrown back; a heavy, rather clumsy
torso, protruding in front; but the legs extremely thin. The man wore
a bowler and a good worsted town-suit, dark gray; he was getting
into a raincoat as he passed out of Logan’s sight into India Street.
He carried a long malacca stick. Even in these brief glimpses, Logan
had the impression that this fellow meant to be taken for a country
gentleman or a retired officer. Yet somehow the effect did not quite
come off. Logan told himself not to be edgy: it wouldn’t do to suspect
every hotel-guest of dark designs. Perhaps the man had only been
glancing at a raw spot on Logan’s cheek, where Jock Anderson’s boot had
scraped.

Yet after dinner, and just before he took a cab to the police station,
the receptionist with the taffy hair spoke to Logan. “Did the gentleman
find you, sir?”

“What gentleman?”

“He didn’t leave his name, sir; he only asked after you--if you were
staying in the hotel--and waited a moment by the counter. I thought he
would have seen you when you went into dinner. A military gentleman,
perhaps.”

Yes, that would have been the man with the bird’s eyes: a military, or
pseudo-military, gentleman. Logan made up his mind to remember that
gentleman.

Of that gentleman, and of his business in Carnglass, however, Logan
said nothing to the Glasgow police, who took his deposition and
promised action. Already they had been looking for Jock and his lads,
but with no luck. It was odd, the constable named Donald said: to get
out of town, or to find some snug hidie-hole, Jock and his gang would
have required more money than they took from the gentleman. Yet somehow
they had gone to earth, and so had Dowie.

Logan told the sergeant that he was touring Scotland, and would be in
Oban a few days, at the Station Hotel. “Never place money with lads
like Jim Dowie,” they told him.

An hour later, in bed at Todd’s Hotel, and tired though he was, Logan
took up “A Summary History of Carnglass and Daldour.” Balmullo, the old
minister, might have been a bigot; yet he had a keen eye and ear. There
was a page of description of the New House of Fear, built down by the
harbor by Donald MacAskival--one of the extravagances that had ruined
him--in 1777.

“It had been the MacAskival’s design,” Balmullo wrote, “to have
demolished _in toto_ the Old House. But the chieftain’s means did
not permit of this undertaking. Accordingly,--and to the chagrin of
every connoisseur of the arts who sets foot upon the mole of Askival
harbour,--the rude Gothic construction has been permitted to loom
intact upon its ruder eminence, denuded of its plenishing save for the
gigantic carven chimneypieces. There remains also, above the principal
entrance to the Old House, a tremendous escutcheon, its bearings in
some part defaced, but yet displaying the graceless figure of a Wild
Man, armed with a dirk, which Wild Man the vulgar name Askival, the
reputed founder of the fortress; and beside the Wild Man a female
figure in a state of undress, whom, with still less authority, the
folk of the island call Marin or Merin. Below these sculptures, in the
letters of a later period, is inscribed the legend, ‘They have said and
they will saye. Let them be saying.’

“Of baseless rumor and frantic conjecture, the island of Carnglass has
no stint. In contempt, I must record that the natives of this island,
blind to the perfections of the New House, continue to allege that
Donald MacAskival built afresh not out of an elevated taste, but rather
because, in the Old House, he had dwelt in dread of the wraiths of his
fathers, said to have waxed wroth with their descendant for his prudent
decision to expel from Carnglass the superfluous population. A gaunt
and bearded spectre, to which is given the appellation of Old Askival,
is reputed to stalk the empty corridors and chambers, in particular
the subterranean portions of the oldest tower. An obscure tradition
asseverates that a hidden passage leads from these cellars to a recess,
and thence to the outer world. Yet the Old House having been builded
upon the living rock, as has been observed elsewhere in these pages,
this supposition can have no more substance than the Kingdom of the
Fairies.”

Here Logan turned out the light. For all his aches and pains, he never
had slept sounder in his life.

On his second Scottish morning, Hugh Logan took the train for Oban. The
wind had gone down somewhat, and the rain was over, though grim gray
clouds still lay to the west. Through Larbert and Stirling, past the
Castle high on its rock, the train puffed up to Callender. Logan sat
in a compartment where two old ladies dozed over their knitting. Half
the time he looked at the hills and villages, and half the time he read
in Balmullo’s “Summary History.” And so the train swept into the West
Highlands.

As they approached Loch Awe, someone paused outside the glass door of
Logan’s compartment. Looking up, Logan saw the man clear: the man in
the bowler, the “military gentleman” with the little black bird-eyes.
That military gentleman was observing him; but the furtive look moved
on to the two somnolent old ladies opposite. For a moment, Logan
thought the man was about to pull back the door and enter. Yet the face
turned away, and the military gentleman was gone from the corridor.
Logan had enjoyed a thorough look at his face: the swollen long nose;
the red and purple veins that bulged against the coarse skin; and those
tiny, frightened, frightening black eyes, sunk into the skull. About
fifty years old, Logan estimated, though seeming older. And a cashiered
British officer, some intuition suggested.

Cashiered, yes. Logan made almost a hobby of collecting clippings from
newspapers about curious cases of criminal law, strange points of
evidence, failures to convict despite strong testimony. It was power
of memory, as much as anything else, that had brought Logan success
at the bar while he still was young. Now he tried to dredge up from
memory that repugnant face of the military gentleman. Cashiered,
cashiered. Hadn’t he read of a captain or major cashiered in India,
and subsequently tried by a criminal court for some separate, though
related, offense--and got off by a very clever barrister? A barrister
with somewhat unsavory political connections? The case had been nasty,
remarkably nasty--and the officer’s acts nastier still. Hadn’t some
London friend, years ago, sent Logan the penny-press clippings about
the case, with a picture or two of the accused?