"I guess a Red Indian couldn't move better," she murmured, putting on a dark cloak, and slipping into her crepe tennis shoes. She made for a clump of bushes behind the two chatting men by a little detour, lingering until at last they got up and passed into the house again. Then she sprang forward into the thicket. The figure should be about here...
It was her own shoulder that a hand grasped.
"Don't be frightened! Don't holler! It's quite all right!" The figure in the darkness was that of a man, the voice just now was low and very urgent.
Most young women would have needed some further reassurance, but Vivian Young did not try to pull herself away. She put her free hand instead into her pocket. Instantly a hand, that felt like steel, gripped it too, not hard, but very firmly.
"It's a torch, not a gun," she said quietly.
"Worse yet," came the swift whisper.
"You're an American, aren't you?" she asked. "I'm from God's country too."
"Has he only one?" came the tart question. "I'm frae Aberdeen, and—but whaur can we talk wi'oot being overheard?"
"Come with me." Vivian had made up her mind as to her course. "There's a summer-house not far off..."
"Mind these laurel bushes!" he cautioned her. "They rustle unco' loudly."
She took his hand and led him swiftly, considering all things, to a dark outline not far off. There she paused, felt for a moment, opened the door, pulled her companion in, shut the door, and only then switched on the light.
They were in a pleasant, pine-walled, pine-ceilinged room, with a rug or two on the floor. Osier chairs in Mandarin blue with cretonne cushions on them, an osier settee and a small table by the fireplace gave the summer-house a homely look.
Seen in the bright electric light, her companion showed as a short, stocky figure with thick hair of a handsome auburn; a shrewd, freckled face lit by a pair of alert, cool gray eyes.
"Who are you?" she asked, though she guessed.
"Suppose I were to tell ye that I'm just the new under-gairdener wi' a taste for listenin' in?" he asked in his marked Scottish accent.
"I should know you for a liar," she replied promptly. "I'm from Texas. We use our wits out there. You're no gardener."
"And wherefore no?"
"Your hands—your fingers—and you called those rhododendrons 'laurels' just now."
He scratched his jutting chin and showed a very fine set of teeth. "Nane sae bad," he conceded fairly. His eyes swept her and studied her. "You yourself are?"
"A visitor to Porte Bonheur." She sat down. So did he. There was a pause.
"I'll e'en tak' a chance," the man said finally, after he had watched her intently for another moment; "I'll e'en trust ye. I'm a repairter on a paper in Aberdeen."
"Where's that?" she asked.
His reply was a look of boundless pity.
"It's the maist important toon in Grreat Britain," he explained modestly. "Well, I'm a repairter there, and yon affair of the robbery in the train of an Aberdonian, a Mr. Davidson, interested me. I've an idea aboot that theft. At least I had," he said, with rather a sheepish grin. "I've been sent by ma editor to speir oot hoo it a' happened. It's ma ain idea," he went on. "If I fail ma paper winna back me. You tak' ma meaning? If I'm caught oot, I'm just—well, whatever I maun hae to be. A trespasser or maybe even a burglar. But the pay promised if I succeed is grrand. And the credit too. I'd be a made man in ma profession. I'd like fine to succeed," he added in a tone whose sincerity there was no mistaking.
"I've got an idea that might be of use to you," she said brightly, and scribbled something on a magazine lying on the table. Tearing off the page, she handed the scrap to the man.
"That may help you in your search," she repeated pleasantly.
He looked at what she had given him, and a dull red surged up in his lean face till his cheeks glowed like his hair. Then he turned and gave her rather a helpless look.
"You can read shorthand of course," she went on, "since you're a reporter."
For a second he stood biting his thin lips, looking at the little white tag. Then he raised his head and laughed a trifle grimly.
"You're a wonder! But you're richt. I'm nae repairter. But I thocht it wad be easier to gain access to the hoose, and your help too, maybe, if ye thocht I was a man belonging to a recognized newspaper. I wanted ye to have confidence in me," he wound up.
"I have confidence in myself," Vivian said placidly; "quite enough to risk associating with you, Mr. Mackay, or even helping you."
"She kens ma name! She kens everything!" he said in half-assumed, half-real admiration. "Well, I am a private detective, Miss Young. Here are my credentials."
He passed a thick note-case over to her. She studied its contents quickly—but quite carefully.
"You're one of the heads of the firm?" she asked, handing it back.
"I am the firm. A' there is to it." He spoke the last sentence soberly enough. His glance swept his thread-bare clothes, his shabby shoes, his ancient felt hat, with a meaning look. "It's make or break with me, Miss Young, this job."
Had he tried for a month he could have found no surer way to interest Vivian Young. "Make or break"—that was real life, she thought, with the feeling of a man who comes back after a long absence to familiar landmarks.
"As good as that?" she breathed eagerly. "My, there's nothing like just air behind one for helping to put pep into things. And putting pep into things is all there is to life," she finished with a laugh.
"As guid as that," Mackay repeated her words too, as though he liked them. "'Make or break' is guid, eh?" He seemed to consider the thought. "Well, I ca'd masel' a repairter as less alarming than a private detective," he explained after a pause. "I thocht I would hae a better chance for a crack wi' Mr. Smith."
"He seems to disapprove of reporters," she told him. "I must keep it dark that I'm one if I want to fascinate him."
"You're a reporter?"
"On the Texas Whirlwind," she said proudly.
"I did land a kelt when I talked of being a newspaper man to you!" he said with fervor.
Miss Young did not know what fish he meant, but she grasped the meaning.
"Sure did!" she assented blithely. She did not add that it was because of her descriptions of the scene, her work of rescue during a terrific fire, that her paper had sent her on a year's tour around the world. Nine months of the year were already gone. It was her great chance, she knew. And to think that so far it had only brought her the post of Anthony Cross's future wife. The thought flashed across her now with quite ludicrous disappointment.
"Mrs. Brownlow, the woman who lost her jewels at the same time as Mr. Davidson did his money, wants you to work for her too, Mr. Mackay. Her husband rather turned the notion down, but I guess she gets her own way with him."
Mackay shook his head.
"By the terms o' ma contract wi' Davidson, I'm pledged not to undertake ony other worrk till his job is dune. Or given up. And mind you, it's going to be a deefficult job," Mackay confided suddenly; "for every reason. Lack o' money. And on ma parrt lack o' training too. I'm but a beginner, ye ken. I bought the business wi' ma last poond-note and I've no succeeded as I hoped. So I come cheap. Which was why Mr. Davidson took me on. The prices o' a French detective made his hair fall oot. Forrby