“Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?”
“Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is something more solid to discuss.”
“And when will that be?”
“In an hour—possibly less.”
The Inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.
“I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps it’s those fishing-boats.”
“No, no; they were too far out.”
“Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not too sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?”
“No, no; you won’t draw me until I am ready,” said I with a smile. “Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you were to meet me here at midday———?”
So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption which was the beginning of the end.
My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in the passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid, dishevelled, his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony hands at the furniture to hold himself erect. “Brandy! Brandy!” he gasped, and fell groaning upon the sofa.
He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting, almost as distrait as his companion.
“Yes, yes, brandy!” he cried. “The man is at his last gasp. It was all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way.”
Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a
