The Mystery of the Green Ray by William le Queux (best ereader for comics TXT) 📖

spread still farther the face of the globe would become the playing-fields of Bedlam in a moment. Think of the result of this everywhere! Some suffocated, some blinded, and millions probably mad and sightless, stumbling over the bodies of the dead to cut each other’s throats in the frenzy of sudden imbecility.”

“Don’t, Garnesk,” I begged. “It won’t bear thinking about. We have enough troubles here to deal with without that!”

“Yes,” my companion admitted, “we need not add to them by any idle conjectures of still more hideous horrors to come. But it is an interesting, if terrible speculation. And it means one thing to us, Ewart, of the very greatest importance. We must solve the riddle somehow.”

“You mean,” I cried, as I realised the tremendous import of his words—“you mean that the sanity of the universe may rest with us! You mean that if we can solve this riddle we, or others, may be able to devise some means of prevention, or at least protection? You mean that we are in duty bound to keep at this night and day until we find out what it is?”

“That is just what I do mean,” he replied seriously. “It is a solemn duty; who knows, it may be a holy trust. Ewart, we agree to get to the bottom of this? We have agreed once, but are we still prepared to go on with this now that we know we may be crushed in the machinery that controls the solar system and lights the very sun?”

“I shall certainly go on,” I replied eagerly. “But we can hardly expect you to run risks on our behalf.”

“It may be in the interests of civilisation,” he answered, “and in that case it is our duty. Now look here, Ewart, this will have to be a secret. It is essential that we should not get ourselves laughed at because, for one thing, the scoffers may get into serious trouble if they start investigating our assertions in a spirit of levity. You and I must keep this to ourselves entirely. What about your friend?”

“I can trust him,” I replied simply.

“Then tell him everything,” Garnesk advised. “If you know you can rely upon him he may be of great assistance to us.”

“What about Hilderman?” I asked. “He knows a good deal already.”

“There is no need for him to know any more. He may be of some use to us. I had thought he might be of the greatest use, but he may be able to help us still. We should decrease, rather than augment, his usefulness by telling him these new complications.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, for instance, he might think we are mad, although he’s a very shrewd fellow.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “I think he’s pretty cute. Funny that Americans so often are. Anyway, he’s been cute enough to make sufficient to retire on at a fairly early age, and retire comfortably too.”

“H’m,” was my companion’s only comment.

After dinner that evening we discussed all sorts of subjects, mainly the war, of course, and went to bed early.

“Now, Ron,” exclaimed Myra, as we said good-night, “if Mr. Garnesk is really going to leave us on Monday, you mustn’t let him worry about things to-morrow. Do let him have one day’s holiday while he is with us, anyway.”

“I will,” I agreed. “We’ll have a real holiday to-morrow. Suppose we all go up Loch Hourn in the motor-boat in the afternoon?”

So it was arranged that we should have an afternoon on the sea and a morning’s fishing on the loch. Garnesk fell in with the idea readily.

“It will do you good,” he declared. “You won’t be feeling too frisky in the morning after your adventure this afternoon.”

As it turned out he was quite right, for I awoke in the morning with a slight headache and a tendency to ache all over. So we fished the loch in a very leisurely fashion for an hour or two, and after lunch the four of us went up to Kinlochbourn. We took a tea-basket with us, and very nearly succeeded in banishing the green ray altogether from our minds. I had taken my Kodak with me, and we ran in shore, and otherwise altered our course occasionally in order to enable me to record some choice peep of the magnificent scenery. When we got back to the lodge we were all feeling much the better for the outing. After dinner Myra, who had taken the greatest interest in the photographs, although, poor child, she could not see what I had taken, and would not be able to see the result either, was anxious to know how they had turned out.

“I should love to know if the snapshots are good,” she said, “particularly the one at Caolas Mor. Develop them in the morning, Ronnie, won’t you? If you don’t you’ll probably take them away, and forget all about them.”

Garnesk looked at me. He was always on the qui vive for any opportunity to give Myra a little pleasure. He felt very strongly that she must be kept from worrying at all costs.

“Why not develop them now, Ewart?” he suggested.

“Certainly,” I said, “if everybody will excuse me.”

“Dad’s in the library,” Myra replied, “but everybody else will come with you if you ask us nicely. Besides, I shall have to tell you where everything is. There’s plenty of room for us all.”

“Right you are,” I agreed readily, and went out to get a small folding armchair from the verandah. We went up to the dark-room at the top of the house, and Myra sat in the corner, giving me instructions as to the position of the bottles, etc. I prepared the developer while Garnesk busied himself with the fixing acid.

“Now we’re ready,” I announced, as I made sure that the light-tight door was closed, and lowered the ruby glass over the orange on Myra’s imposing dark-room lamp; she believed in doing things comfortably; no messing about with an old-fashioned “hock-bottle” for her. I took the spool from my pocket and began to develop them en bloc.

“How are they coming along?” Myra asked, leaning forward interestedly.

“They’re beginning to show up,” I replied; “they look rather promising.”

“It’s rather warm in here,” said the girl presently; “do you think it would matter if I removed my shade, Mr. Garnesk?”

“Not if you put it on again before we put the light up,” the specialist answered. Myra took off the shade and the heavy bandage with a sigh of relief, and leaned her elbow on the table beside her.

“There’s a glass beaker just by your arm, dear,” I said; “just a minute and I’ll put it out of reach.”

“All right,” said Garnesk, moving forward, “I’ll move it; don’t you worry.”

But before he could reach the table there was a crash. The beaker went smashing to the floor. I turned with a laugh, which died on my lips. Myra was standing up with her hand to her head.

“What is it, darling?” I cried, dropping the length of film on the floor. Garnesk made a grab for the shade. Myra gave a short, shrill little laugh, which had a slightly ominous, hysterical note in it.

“Don’t be alarmed, dear,” she said quietly, in a curiously tense voice, “I can see!”

CHAPTER XII. WHO IS HILDERMAN?

I must admit that I was so delighted to find that Myra had recovered her sight that I very nearly made what might have been a very serious mistake. I gave a loud shout of triumph and made a dive for the light, intending to switch it on. This might, of course, have had a very bad effect upon my darling’s eyes, but fortunately Garnesk darted across the room and knocked up my arm in the nick of time.

“Not yet, Ewart, not yet,” he warned me. “We must run no risks until we are quite sure.”

“But, Ronnie, I can see quite well,” Myra declared delightedly. “I see everything just as easily as I usually can by the light of the dark-room lamp.”

“Still, we won’t expose you to the glare of white light just at present, Miss McLeod,” said Garnesk solemnly. “We must be very careful. Tell me, how did your sight return, gradually or suddenly?”

“Suddenly, I think,” the girl replied. “I took off the shade and laid it down, and then when I looked up I could distinctly see the lamp.”

“Immediately the shade was removed?”

“No,” she answered, “not just immediately. You see, I was looking at the floor, which is so dark, of course, that you couldn’t see it in the ordinary way. Then as soon as I looked up I could see the lamp. For a moment I thought it was my imagination, but when I found I could see Ron stooping over the developing-dish I knew that I was all right again.”

“This is very extraordinary, you know,” said Garnesk. “Can you count the bottles on the middle shelf?”

“Oh, yes!” laughed Myra, “I can make them out distinctly. Of course, I know pretty well what they are, but in any case I could easily describe them to you if I’d never seen them before.”

“What have I got in my hand?” the specialist queried, holding his arm out.

“A pair of nail-clippers,” Myra declared emphatically, and Garnesk laughed.

“Well,” he said, “you can obviously see it pretty well; but, as a matter of fact, it’s a cigar-cutter.”

“Oh! well, you see,” the girl explained airily, “I always put necessity before luxury!”

So then the oculist made her sit down again and questioned and cross-questioned her at considerable length.

“I’m puzzled, but delighted,” he admitted finally. “It’s strange, but it is at the same time decidedly hopeful.”

“I suppose it means that she will always be able to see in a red light at any rate?” I suggested.

“Probably it does,” he agreed, “and, of course, her sight may be completely restored. There is also a middle course; she may be able to see perfectly after a course of treatment in red light. I will get her a pair of red glasses made at once. We can see how that goes. But I feel that it would be advisable to introduce her to daylight in gradual stages, in case of any risk.”

“Oh, if we could only find poor old Sholto!” Myra exclaimed eagerly. Garnesk turned to her with a look of frank admiration.

“You’re a lucky young dog, Ewart,” he whispered to me, “by Jove you are!”

So Myra graciously, but a little regretfully I think, placed herself in the hands of the young specialist and replaced her shade. Then we left the dark-room, allowing the films to develop out on the floor, and went downstairs. We took her out on to the verandah and removed the shade for a moment, but the chill air of the highland night made her eyes smart after their unaccustomed imprisonment, and we gave up the experiment for that night.

As Garnesk and I bathed together in the morning we were both brighter and more cheerful than we had been since his arrival.

“I shall catch the train from Mallaig,” he declared. “Can you take me in and meet your friend without having long to wait?”

“If you insist on going,” I replied, “I can get you there in time to meet him and you will have an hour or more to wait for your train.”

“Oh, so much the better! We can tell him everything and give him all the news in the interval.”

“Are you still determined to go?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “I must go. It will be necessary for me to make one or two inquiries and get a pair of glasses made for Miss McLeod.”

“I shall be very sorry to lose you, Garnesk,” I said earnestly. “Don’t you think you could write or wire for the glasses? You see, if we have come to the conclusion