However, before five o'clock he had scrubbed himself and arrayed his
well constructed person in fresh linen and outer clothing; and now he
sauntered out through the hallway and down the stairs to the rear
drawing-room, where a tea-table had been brought in and tea
paraphernalia arranged. Although the lamp under the kettle had been
lighted, nobody was in the room except a West Highland terrier curled
up on a lounge, who, without lifting his snow-white head, regarded
Neeland out of the wisest and most penetrating eyes the young man had
ever encountered.
Here was a personality! Here was a dog not to be approached lightly or
with flippant familiarity. No! That small, long, short-legged body
with its thatch of wiry white hair was fairly instinct with dignity,
wisdom, and uncompromising self-respect.
"That dog," thought Neeland, venturing to seat himself on a chair
opposite, "is a Presbyterian if ever there was one. And I, for one,
haven't the courage to address him until he deigns to speak to me."
He looked respectfully at the dog, glanced at the kettle which had
begun to sizzle a little, then looked out of the long windows into the
little walled garden where a few slender fruit trees grew along the
walls in the rear of well-kept flower beds, now gay with phlox,
larkspur, poppies, and heliotrope, and edged with the biggest and
bluest pansies he had ever beheld.
On the wall a Peacock butterfly spread its brown velvet and gorgeously
eyed wings to the sun's warmth; a blackbird with brilliant yellow bill
stood astride a peach twig and poured out a bubbling and incessant
melody full of fluted grace notes. And on the grass oval a kitten
frisked with the ghosts of last month's dandelions, racing after the
drifting fluff and occasionally keeling over to attack its own tail,
after the enchanting manner of all kittens.
A step behind him and Neeland turned. It was Marotte, the butler, who
presented a thick, sealed envelope to him on his salver, bent to turn
down the flame under the singing silver kettle, and withdrew without a
sound.
Neeland glanced at the letter in perplexity, opened the envelope and
the twice-folded sheets of letter paper inside, and read this odd
communication: * * * * * Have I been fair to you? Did I keep my word? Surely you must now, in
your heart, acquit me of treachery--of any premeditated violence
toward you.
I never dreamed that those men would come to my stateroom. That plan
had been discussed, but was abandoned because it appeared impossible
to get hold of you.
And also--may I admit it without being misunderstood?--I absolutely
refused to permit any attempt involving your death.
When the trap shut on you, there in my stateroom, it shut also on me.
I was totally unprepared; I was averse to murder; and also I had given
you my word of honour.