"I begin to think you were. He was cunning enough to see that it wasn't worth while running any risks, when he could probably get a sitting shot next time. And he would have got me if you hadn't arrested me. Heavens! To think of that man single-handed defying the British Navy and the British Police and actually making it impossible for any pursuer he considered dangerous to remain alive in this island! Bolton went, poor chap, and I would have gone but for you." Perhaps I pressed her arm a little. Anyhow, she answered nothing for a moment, and then in a low voice said, "Poor Bolton! Oh, you've no idea how frightened I got that morning when I heard the news!" I knew it was not for herself she was frightened, and my heart beat quicker. "I wonder how it happened," she went on. "I've often wondered since!" "If I may venture to guess too," I said, "I should say that Bolton was undoubtedly on the right track. He had found that Jock was not one of the family and had got suspicious of his movements, but one may safely take it Jock was watching him like a cat watching a mouse--very likely he managed to overhear Bolton making enquiries, and he deliberately laid a scent for him that took him to the cliffs." "That sounds very likely," said she. "And then he took Bolton's pocket book and made those entries." "That pocket book is rather a sore subject!" I said. I heard a little gurgle of laughter, but then she did not know how sore the subject was. My scene with the unfortunate doctor was hardly my happiest recollection of Ransay. And so we went on trotting and walking and talking, and all the time I was realising more and more vividly that if this could only be made the first of ten thousand evenings with her, I should be the luckiest man in the world. Also I was realising that for some reason she seemed to think I had done something rather heroic in returning to the place where I had nearly been scythed and shot, and tackling the unknown enemy single-handed; especially after she happened to discover I had been wounded. It made me feel--well, a little abashed and dreadfully afraid of being found out when she knew me better, but extraordinarily happy for the moment. But for one sobering fact I should have told her everything I felt and hoped before that walk was over. The beard of Thomas Sylvester Hobhouse still wagged between us. Till I had got rid of that black hirsute horror I was not going to risk my chances of happiness. It was pitch dark, I admit, but then in certain delicate situations, well, if I were a girl I should strongly object, especially if I knew it were dyed and didn't know if the dye would run. And so we sent up the reinforcements, and then I saw her home, and hurried back myself with a dancing heart to meet the others. XIX OUR MORNING CALL