They rowed us home almost in silence to
Seldon. It was half-past twelve by the gatehouse clock when we
reached the castle. Men had been sent along the coast each way to
seek us. Amelia had gone to bed, much alarmed for our safety. Isabel
was sitting up. It was too late, of course, to do much that night in
the way of apprehending the miscreants, though Charles insisted upon
dispatching a groom, with a telegram for the police at Inverness,
to Fowlis.
Nothing came of it all. A message awaited us from Lord
Craig-Ellachie, to be sure, saying that his son had not left
Glen-Ellachie Lodge; while research the next day and later showed
that our correspondent had never even received our letter. An empty
envelope alone had arrived at the house, and the postal authorities
had been engaged meanwhile, with their usual lightning speed, in
"investigating the matter." Cesarine had posted the letter herself
at Fowlis, and brought back the receipt; so the only conclusion we
could draw was this--Colonel Clay must be in league with somebody
at the post-office. As for Lord Craig-Ellachie's reply, that was a
simple forgery; though, oddly enough, it was written on
Glen-Ellachie paper.
However, by the time Charles had eaten a couple of grouse, and
drunk a bottle of his excellent Rudesheimer, his spirits and valour
revived exceedingly.
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