The Silver Bough Read Free

door. “There he is,” she said quietly, drawing back a pace. And Grant saw a man coming round the corner of the hotel and setting out alone along the Clachar road. It was the man who had sat beside him in the bus.

Chapter Two
    M
ore than odd, thought Grant, as he continued to follow the man along the narrow road to Clachar; in fact it’s absolutely absurd, he decided, laughing silently to himself at something fantastic in their solitary progression, but sobering quickly, for he must act resolutely right away or he couldn’t go ahead with his project at all. The Colonel, he felt, might at least have given him a personal hint about the fellow. But then the Colonel would never notice a little thing like that! For a few minutes he became self-conscious, heard echoes of the Colonel’s talk about the unfortunate tendency among certain archaeologists to rush into theory, to construct whole civilisations, evoke races and all their wanderings, from a chance bone, a chipped flint, or a piece of baked clay. But then Grant always knew when the Colonel was getting at him.
    It was very hot, absolutely boiling, he concluded, now sweating profusely, for the ‘flu had taken it out of him—temperature over 103—and his body, like his mind, felt light and sensitive. Would he put a spurt on and overtake him and be done with it? If he suddenly looked round, would he wave to him? They had left the sea, but now as they came up on the ridge, Grant saw it again in the distance, a glimmering sheet set with islands; a bay rather than a sea-loch; croft houses dotted about, a stream—but the man in front had stopped, was standing quite still, staring ahead, like a figure in a film. Grant, who had involuntarily stopped, began to go forward again, aware of a sudden nervousness, an uncertainty. His footsteps at last aroused the man, who turned his head slowly.
    â€œI believe you are Mr Martin?” and Grant smiled in his friendly way.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m afraid I did not make it clear that I have a letter of introduction to you from Colonel Mackintosh, the archaeologist. Do you mind if I——” And, pulling the letter from a breast pocket, he presented it.
    â€œOh,” said Martin without any expression as he took the letter, then he looked again at Grant.
    â€œMy name is Grant. I work with the Colonel—with Colonel Mackintosh. He suggested that I might call on you, in connection with a certain cairn on your land. I hope it’s not inconvenient?”
    â€œWhat cairn?”
    â€œIt’s a cairn—uh—not far from Clachar House—near the sea. I could show it to you on the map.” He began fumbling at his pockets.
    â€œI know it,” said Martin.
    â€œIt’s a matter simply of opening up the cairn, just to see what’s inside. But it means entry on your land, though, of course, I should see that nothing was really—uh—messed about.” A frank flash came from the blue eyes.
    The flash was not acknowledged and the letter was quietly shoved into an outside pocket. “How is Colonel Mackintosh?”
    â€œHe’s very well; only wishing, he said, that he could come up himself to see you—and get the job done properly.”
    Now a faint dry humour gathered about Martin’s eyes, a certain irony, which gave the face an aloof attractiveness. Grant heard the slight expulsion of breath from the nostrils and caught the smell of whisky. Presumably Mr Martin had had his afternoon tea not in the lounge but in the public bar behind the hotel.
    â€œYou’re going on there now, to the Stone Circle?”
    â€œYes. There is a stone circle round the cairn, but the actual work, of course, will be on the cairn—I mean, I shan’t interfere with the standing stones.”
    â€œI see,” said Martin, the dry humour already gone. The jet-black hair, a certain pallor, the fine features—it could be a very expressive face.