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CHAPTER ONE

The atmosphere in the dark, austerely furnished office of Menzies, Farquharson & Menzies became, of a sudden, electric.

Mr. Andrew Menzies, seated—as he had thought— securely behind the barrier of his vast mahogany desk with its array of steel deed boxes and its piles of dusty briefs, found himself at a decided disadvantage. For his attractive young caller, skirting the barrier as if it did not exist, confronted him impatiently now from the spot normally occupied by his wastepaper basket.

From this position, Andrew Menzies was uncomfortably aware, she would notice that he was wearing a pair of shabby carpet slippers, instead of the neat and highly polished black shoes which convention—and his immaculate striped trousers—demanded of a well dressed member of the legal profession in the City of Glasgow.

“But, Miss McColl——” he began, stammering a little

in his embarrassment, “I fear you do not understand. Er— that is——”

“On the contrary, Mr. Menzies,” Miss McColl interposed swiftly, in her husky, faintly accented voice. She smiled at him. “It is you who do not understand. I am in a hurry. I have come over from New York with the intention of buying this property, having, as I had believed, dealt with all the preliminaries by correspondence. The price was agreed. I have my cheque book with me and I have supplied you with evidence that I have funds to my credit, in this country, which are more than sufficient to cover the amount of the cheque. Have I not?”

“Oh—er—yes. Yes, of course you have, Miss McColl,” Mr. Menzies agreed. He eyed her unhappily.

She was, he thought, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life. And easily the best dressed. Under any other circumstances than the ones in which he now found himself, Andrew Menzies, despite his sixty odd years, would have been delighted to receive her in his office, proud to take her to lunch at his staid and respectable club, after their business had been concluded. She was—she was like a breath of Spring in that dark and dusty room, in the well cut lavender tweed suit, with its neat, matching accessories, the impeccable little hat, which crowned, but did not hide, the coppery colored mass of luxuriant curls and added piquance to the lovely, intelligent face.

His clerks had goggled at her, when she came in . . . even young Mr. David Menzies had been unable to take his eyes off her. And as for not-so-young Mr. James Farquharson — Mr. Menzies Senior sighed. In all the twenty-five years of their association, he never remembered his partner being reduced to speechlessness before.

“Well, Mr. Menzies?” Miss McColl challenged. A pair of wide-set grey eyes met his in a surprisingly shrewd, direct glance.

Mr. Menzies mentally revised his original estimate of her age. Twenty-three or four, he had thought, but now he decided that she must be older. Such poise, such complete self-assurance did not belong to the very young. Although, of course, she was American. Americans were notoriously self-assertive and aware of what they wanted. They were also, regrettably, almost always in a hurry.

Mr. Menzies gave a dry cough and drew his carpetslippered feet a little further under the desk.

“Miss McColl, I too had thought that we had dealt with all the preliminaries by correspondence. But they were only the preliminaries. Frankly, I did not expect you to come in person to this country until matters had progressed a little further.”

“And exactly how much further,” Miss McColl asked, with dangerous calm, “must they progress, Counsellor, before I am permitted to conclude the deal?”

A trifle startled by her unusual mode of address, Andrew Menzies found himself stammering again.

“Well—er—you see, my client had to be consulted——”

“Your client? I guess you must mean Mr. Macrae, the owner?” Miss McColl sat down again and took out her cigarette-case. It was a gold one.

Mr. Menzies inclined his snow white head. “Yes, Miss McColl.” He found, after some searching, a box of matches. “Mr. Alastair Macrae has imposed certain conditions governing the sale of the estate. Agreement to these conditions must be in writing, properly signed and witnessed, before the—er—deal can be concluded.”

Miss McColl asked, with grave politeness: “You don’t object to my smoking, Counsellor?”

“Oh—er—no indeed.” A match was already in the solicitor’s hand. He lit and extended it to the tip of his visitor’s cigarette and his nostrils drew in the strong, pungent odour of American tobacco and wrinkled in distaste. Miss McColl smilingly offered her case and, on his refusal, closed it again and leaned back in her chair. She said:

“Let’s get things straight, shall we? I take it that the Island of Carra is still offered for sale, lock, stock and barrel, at the original price, providing that I agree, in writing, to certain conditions which the present owner now wishes to impose?”

There was a faint emphasis on the “now”. Mr. Menzies decided to ignore it. He nodded. “Yes. You have summed things up most admirably. The—er—the conditions are if I may express my personal opinion, not unreasonable. Mr. Alastair Macrae is the Laird of Carra and the estate has been in his family’s possession for generations. Only present-day taxation and the ever increasing, crippling burden of death duties compel him to sell his inheritance, Miss McColl, but he—not unnaturally, I think—feels that, whilst he is forced to take this very drastic and painful step, he is nevertheless not free of his responsibilities towards the people who live on Carra. His tenants and estate workers, you understand, come, for the most part, of families whose association with the Island has become almost as long as his own.”

Miss McColl inhaled smoke thoughtfully. “Yes,” she agreed, her tone curiously flat, “I do understand that, Mr. Menzies. I understand it perhaps a great deal better than you realize. Does the name McColl—my name—suggest nothing to you?”

“I—er——” Mr. Menzies was somewhat at a loss. “It is a Scottish name. It——”

“There were McColls on Carra,” the girl put in swiftly, “for three hundred years. Oh, they were poor, unimportant folk, crofters, fishermen, tilling a few barren acres which they didn’t own, eking a living from the sea. The Lairds evicted them, Mr. Menzies, to make room for sheep, which were more profitable. My grandfather was the last of them to go, in 1842. Famine and poverty drove him to America, in the overcrowded hold of an emigrant ship. But he was fortunate, he prospered in America and laid the foundations of a family business which grew up into a vast concern. When my father died last year, Mr. Menzies, he was a multi-millionaire. I was his sole heir.” Impatiently, Miss McColl extinguished her cigarette. “My father’s business affairs,” she went on, “are in competent hands. I have no concern with them, except that I own a controlling interest in several of his companies. But he had a dream, which he did not live to fulfil, and that was to return to Carra. He had, of course, no idea of buying the estate, no notion that it would ever be offered for sale. But I saw the advertisement in an English magazine, as you know, and that was how I came to write to you in the first place. I want to realize my father’s dream, Mr. Menzies. I want a McColl to return to Carra, not as a visiting tourist but as the owner. I have come here for the purpose of buying it and, as I have already told you, I am in a hurry. Tell me the conditions, please. If they are as reasonable as you suggest, there seems little likelihood that I shall refuse to agree to them.”

Mr. Menzies leafed through the papers on his desk, finally bringing to light a typewritten sheet of headed notepaper.

“This,” he said, “is a letter from Mr. Macrae. It is not in any sense a legal document, merely an outline of his wishes and I should need time to go through it, in order to draw up a proper form of agreement for you to sign. You, Miss McColl, would no doubt wish to be represented—if you have no legal adviser in this country, I should be happy to put you in touch with a colleague who would be free to act for you. I——”

Miss McColl silenced him with an imperious gesture.

“It’s all going to take much longer than I expected,” she remarked resignedly. “However——” she held out a slim, beautifully manicured hand for the letter, “may I see that?”

“Oh, dear me no!” Mr. Menzies was horrified. “This is a private letter from a client of my firm. I could not possibly let you read it. But I—er——” a glance at her face decided him, “I shall quote from it, if you will allow me to.”

“Why, certainly.” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in the husky rejoinder. “Go right ahead. I’m listening.”

Mr. Menzies cleared his throat. “Briefly,” he told her, averting his gaze hurriedly from the opening lines of the letter, in which his client had expressed, somewhat forcibly, his resentment of the entire system of British taxation, “briefly, Miss McColl, Mr. Alastair Macrae suggests that, as a condition of sale, you should agree to security of tenure, at existing rentals, of all tenanted agricultural and residential property on the estate, no matter what future legislation may allow in the way of increases in rents or within reason, what improvements may be made. In the event of substantial improvements to agricultural property, of course——”

“In plain English that would mean that I wouldn’t increase any rents or throw any tenants out?” Miss McColl suggested.

Mr. Menzies permitted himself a wintry smile. “Yes. The land is poor on Carra and the farms and crofts show little profit. I should be failing in my duty were I not to point out to you, Miss McColl, that few of the holdings are let at an economic rent. If they were, the feu-holders could not afford to remain on the island.” He waited but she offered no comment. So he went on: “It is Mr. Macrae’s wish also that the new owner agree to retain in her service all workers presently employed on the estate, subject to——”

he went into legal technicalities and Miss McColl lit another cigarette.

After a while, she interrupted: “My lawyers can go into all that, I guess. It sounds reasonable enough to me. How much more is there?”

Mr. Menzies looked pained. “I was trying to make the position absolutely clear to you but——”

“You have,” Miss McColl assured him dryly, “though frankly it’d be a whole lot clearer if you just used words of one syllable, Counsellor.”

Mr. Menzies finished reading the letter and removed his glasses. “Mr. Macrae would like you to continue to retain the services of his factor, Captain Lammond,” he said, “subject to—er—that is, on the same terms as all the other employees. And he himself wishes to take over tenancy of the Home Farm at an annual rental to be agreed upon by the purchaser and himself. Mr. Macrae’s suggestion is of two hundred and fifty pounds a year which is, I think, a very fair offer for an acreage of——”

“Now wait a minute,” Miss McColl exclaimed, startled. “Does that mean that Mr. Macrae wants to stay on Carra?”

The solicitor hesitated. Finally he said: “Yes. But simply as an ordinary tenant farmer, Miss McColl. He——”

Miss McColl rose to her feet. She faced him, slim and lovely from across the desk, a faint flush staining her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “but I don’t think we can do business on these terms. I’m quite prepared to agree to everything Mr. Macrae suggests regarding his tenants and estate workers and his factor. But I won’t have him stay on the island if I buy it. I’ve no love for his family, after what they did to mine. And besides, whoever heard of the owner of a property offering it for sale, on condition that he himself goes on living there? I’m third generation American, I admit, but I’ve some notion of Highland traditions, Mr. Macrae is the Laird and, so long as he stays there, the islanders will regard him as their laird, whether he owns Carra or I do. That wouldn’t be good enough for me, Mr. Menzies, and you can tell your client so. I’ll”— she paused and her eyes went to a calendar on the wall, behind the old solicitor’s head. “It’s now the ninth. I’ll give you a week to talk Mr. Macrae over. I want to buy Carra and I want to live there, for—well, we’ll call them sentimental reasons, shall we? I respect Mr. Macrae’s thought for his tenants and his employees’ future but, putting it bluntly, as we’re accustomed to putting things in the States, I see no reason why I should concern myself with his future.”

“But Carra is his home, Miss McColl. There have been Macraes on Carra since the fifteenth century. And Mr. Macrae is a fine young man, I assure you, a very fine young man. He——”

“There were McColls on Carra too,” Miss McColl pointed out coldly, “but they had to leave it. They were driven out, penniless and starving. If Mr. Macrae sells Carra to me, he will be neither. He should, in fact, be very comfortably off.”

“Most of the purchase price will go in death duties,” Mr. Menzies answered sadly. He liked Alastair Macrae, whom he had known since childhood. But he understood Miss McColl’s feelings—the Laird was the Laird, so long as he remained on Carra.

Miss McColl moved towards the door. Reaching it, she halted, a thoughtful frown drawing her brows together.

“Mr. Menzies,” she said, “I tell you what I’ll do. Since I’m going to have to agree to keep a whole lot of folk I’ve never met, as tenants and employees, and in view of what you tell me about Mr. Alastair Macrae, I think it might be a good thing if I went to Carra right away and had a look at things for myself, don’t you? I might be prepared to reconsider Mr. Macrae’s proposed tenancy if I liked him and found him the sort of person I’d be able to get along with.”

Mr. Menzies brightened. “That would be generous, Miss McColl. I am sure that you will like Mr. Macrae——”

“I’ll need to like him a great deal before I’ll agree to his staying,” Miss McColl warned. She added briskly: “Can you arrange things then? Tell Mr. Macrae I’m coming and fix up for me to be accommodated on the Island? I should like to leave here tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” Mr. Menzies echoed aghast. “But that’s not giving us much time, is it? We——”

“Mr. Menzies,” Miss McColl said gently, “you haven’t got much time. Just seven days, remember? Well——” she

sighed, “I won’t keep you any longer. You know my address in Glasgow and can get in touch with me when you’ve had a talk with your client on the ‘phone. I’ll be ready to go to Carra tomorrow. I’d try to arrange things so that I can, if you want the sale to go through. As——”. she smiled briefly, “you do, I am sure. I mean, Mr. Macrae has to pay those death duties, hasn’t he?”

He had, Andrew Menzies reflected, as his clerk came, in response to his summons, to show Miss McColl out. He had to pay every last penny of the ruinous levy and — apart from the wealthy Miss McColl, there was no other purchaser in prospect . . .

Rather wearily, he picked up the telephone receiver on his desk and asked to be connected with the Island of Carra in the Outer Hebrides.

Whilst he waited for his call to be put through, his feet, in the undignified carpet slippers, drummed uneasily on the floor beneath his desk.

Alastair Macrae was not going to like this — he was not going to like it at all.

CHAPTER TWO

The Estate Office at Carra was housed in a small stone building near the wrought-iron gates leading to the Castle.

It consisted of two rooms, in which the files were kept and the Factor worked, assisted occasionally, by his seventeen year old cousin, Margaret Macrae, who had learnt shorthand and typing in her last term at school — to her own, if not entirely to the Factor’s satisfaction.

Peter Lammond, the Factor, was at his desk in the inner office when the ‘phone rang. He picked up the receiver and recognized Andrew Menzies’ voice at once. He said apologetically, in answer to the solicitor’s inquiry:

“I’m sorry, sir, he’s out on the hill with McLeod. Can I give him a message for you? I’m not expecting him back till about five.”

He listened, in silence, to what Menzies had to say, doodling on his blotter. Menzies had a lot to say—all of it, he was aware, good advice, if only that stiff necked, obstinate devil Alastair would take it.

Menzies went on and on. Twice the pips sounded but he ignored them. Peter said: “Yes, sir,” at suitable intervals, drew a series of small fat men on his blotter, gave them bonnets and, as the pips sounded for the third time, he added feathers to the bonnets. Then, as an afterthought, he drew a large female figure, with horn rimmed glasses and protruding teeth, and labelled it “Miss McColl”. He and Alastair had discussed Miss McColl very frequently during the past few weeks and they had decided that she would be middle-aged, forthright and—judging by her letters—a shrewd and canny business woman.

He rather liked his drawing of her. It seemed to express her personality quite recognizably—especially this latest aspect of it, which was emerging, bit by bit, from old Menzies’ account of his interview with her.

“What,” he asked, when he could edge a word into the one-sided conversation, “what is she like, sir? Miss McColl I mean? Alastair is sure to want to know. Fair, fat and Middle West? Or tough, tweeded and Texan?”

Old Menzies’ answer took his breath away. A trifle dazedly, he crossed out his doodle. Young, good looking, so charming and so exquisitely dressed that even old Menzies was waxing lyrical about her! Young, attractive and . . . rich! A dollar multi-millionairess. A tennis champion— good heavens, was she that McColl? He’d read about a Cornelia McColl, seen pictures of her in Life and The Racquet but it hadn’t occurred to him that there could be any connection. McColl was a fairly common name. True, she’d signed her letters “C. E. McColl” but it hadn’t rung a bell. Even now, it didn’t seem possible. What did they call her in the States? “Miss Poker-face Junior” after Helen Wills—she was tipped as a Wimbledon certainty in this year’s championships, having wrested the American title from Shirley Ryan.

Peter spluttered into the ‘phone.

Mr. Menzies said dryly: “I’m afraid her looks won’t help Alastair. She is quite determined that he’s not to stay, if she buys the estate. And frankly, Lammond, I think he’ll have to sell it to her. There are the death duties, for one thing, and for another, it will be a wonderful thing for Carra if she buys—all that money, why—she’ll be the salvation of the place, my dear boy! You’ll get your drainage schemes carried out, your building repairs done. She’s mentioned installing central heating in the house in her letters, hasn’t she? And pedigree stock on the farms. Those were the—er—the preliminaries. I confess, she took me by surprise, arriving quite unheralded in my office this morning, with her cheque book in her hand, ready to conclude the purchase then and there. Without having seen the place, mind you! I—I—well, perhaps my brain didn’t work fast enough. All I could think about was Alastair’s letter and the fact that one can’t draw up legal agreements at a moment’s notice. She’s prepared, as I told you, to agree to all the conditions that Alastair wanted, except for his tenancy of the Home Farm. On that point, she seems pretty adamant. But perhaps when she meets him——”

“When,” Peter asked, “does she intend to meet him, sir? Does she want him to go over to Glasgow or what?”

“I was coming to that,” Mt. Menzies returned testily, “if you wouldn’t interrupt. She wants to come to Carra, to stay for a few days. In fact, she’s suggested tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, sir?” Peter was staggered. “But that’s impossible. I mean, nothing’s ready. You know how we live, sir, just Alastair and me. I mean——”

“I suggest you do everything in your power to get things ready, Lammond. That’s if you want the sale to go through. She’s given me a week, from today, to settle the legal side of it. The rest is up to Alastair—his staying on Carra, after the sale, is the bone of contention. In fact, it’s the only one, as far as I can see. You’ll have to explain the situation to Alastair and see that he behaves tactfully, during her visit.” Mr. Menzies’ tone was dryer than ever and Peter’s heart sank, as the solicitor added: “You know Alastair.”

Yes, Peter reflected, he knew Alastair, had known him since boyhood. They had been at school together, served in the same regiment during the war. Alastair was the finest fellow he knew, his best friend, quite apart from being his cousin and his employer, and Peter would cheerfully have died for him, if at any time Alastair had required such a sacrifice. But, since the war and his father’s death, Alastair had changed. The war had left him with a noticeable and, at times, painful limp: his father, in dying, had left him with the even more crippling burden of a hopelessly impoverished estate and taxes he couldn’t pay. He had never been much of a ladies’ man and now he had retreated into a secret hell of his own making, shunning the company of women, spuming the sympathy and kindness they all tried to lavish on him, too proud to see it as anything but pity.

Even Peter, who lived with him, had to tread warily where Alastair’s pride was concerned. It was, he realized, quite out of the question to expect Alastair to plead his case tactfully with a young and beautiful woman. There would have been more chance of it had Miss McColl been the middle-aged, be-spectacled woman they had judged her from her letters. Though even then, Peter wondered, could Alastair have asked a favor for himself?

The pips sounded again and this time Mr. Menzies heard them. He said hurriedly: “This ‘phone call is going to be a costly one. I’d better ring off. You’ve got it all clear, haven’t you? Tell Alastair and he can ring me back with his instructions—I’ll wait in the office till six. But I’d try to receive Miss McColl tomorrow, if you can. She’s in a hurry, like all Americans—wants everything settled quickly or she’ll be off back to the States and we’ll lose the sale. And we’ll never get another offer like hers— she’s made no attempt to quibble over the price and, you know, we were prepared to come down a little, if necessary. So do your best, Lammond. Miss McColl’s keen to buy —it seems her ancestors came from Carra and she’s sentimental about the place. She’s staying at the George, here in Glasgow, if Alastair wants to get in touch with her personally. He might ring her up, perhaps—it’s an idea you might suggest to him. Right? You’ve got all that? Then I’ll say good-bye. And I’ll expect to hear from Alastair.”

There was a faint click, as the receiver at the other end was replaced and, very slowly and thoughtfully, Peter replaced his own.

He would have—he glanced at his watch—about three hours, before Alastair came in. Three hours in which to get things organized, so that he could face his cousin with a fait accompli. Because that was the only way. If he greeted Alastair with the news that Miss McColl was coming and that all was in readiness for her reception, then there wouldn’t be much Alastair could do about it. He could hardly ring up the George and tell her not to come, if he . . .

Peter took a deep breath and reached once more for the telephone. He reflected, as he thumbed through the telephone directory, that if he were to burn his boats at all, he might as well make a good job of it. He asked for his number and, when a strange voice told him that he was through to the George Hotel, Glasgow, he requested, with creditable firmness, to be connected with Miss Cornelia McColl.

Their conversation was brief and businesslike but Peter had to mop his brow when it ended. Because the austerely bachelor establishment at Carra Castle was in no state to extend appropriate hospitality to an important guest. And he had just under three hours in which to make it so . . .

He stalked to the door of the outer office, from behind which he could hear the spasmodic tapping of Margaret’s typewriter, opened it and said urgently: “Margaret——”

Margaret looked up at him, flustered, and dropped the rubber she had been using. “Oh, Peter, you made me jump and now look what a mess this is in!” She jerked the smudged letter from her machine and displayed it reproachfully. “You made me do that one, you are a beast! And I absolutely promised Alastair I’d have all his letters done this afternoon.”

She was a pretty, dark-haired girl, whose glowing cheeks and delicately curved mouth owed nothing of their beauty to artificial aids. Leggy and over-slim, she was in the process of transition from schoolgirl to young womanhood and Peter knew, because she had confided the fact to him quite recently, that she cherished a long standing and hitherto unrequited passion for their cousin Alastair, of which he, fortunately for his peace of mind, was completely unaware. The look in her eyes and her swift blush, as she spoke Alastair’s name, were a fresh betrayal but Peter, for once, let both pass unnoticed. He pushed the ruined typescript impatiently away and gripped Margaret’s arm.

“Listen——” he bade her, “you’ve got to help me or I’m sunk. Miss McColl’s coming to stay—here, at the Castle. We’ve got to get organized and we haven’t much time. She’s arriving tomorrow, by the afternoon boat.”

“Well, she can’t,” asserted Margaret, with conviction, “it’s impossible, it’s——”

“Nonsense,” Peter returned, “nothing’s impossible.” He added, shamelessly: “For Alastair. Come on!”

Margaret went with him, protesting loudly . . .

Peter was back at his desk when, a little over three hours later, he heard Alastair’s deep, slow voice and measured tread in the outer office. There was a tap on the door and he bundled the accounts he had been pretending to work on into a drawer and called out, in what he hoped might sound a casual tone:

“I’m here. Come on in, Alastair—I’ve got some news for you.”

Alastair entered, bringing with him the scent of rainwet tweeds and pipe tobacco.

He was, Peter thought, eyeing him affectionately, one of the few men he knew whose physical appearance fitted to perfection his role in life. Had he lived in Hollywood, instead of in the Outer Hebrides, he would, undoubtedly, have made a fortune. Any film producer, looking for an actor to portray a Highland chieftan, would have chosen Alastair Macrae without hesitation—and spent the rest of his days buying up stories which featured Highland chieftains, so as to cash in on his discovery.

Alastair was tall — almost six inches over six foot — and despite his limp, he moved with the lithe grace of a trained athlete. Even the fact that, although only thirty-four, his dark hair was now grey at the temples added to his air of distinction, whilst ageing him little and detracting from his looks not at all. He had strong, rather aquiline features, bore himself with conscious arrogance and was, in character, something of a contradiction.

For Alastair was a quiet, serious minded fellow, whose humour was too deep and dour for most people to find amusing. His arrogance stemmed from shyness and was the barrier he erected between himself and the rest of the world, preferring strangers to believe him aloof and unapproachable than that they should recognize the truth.

And yet, Peter reflected, in the Burma jungles, his men had worshipped Alastair. In a Chindit commanding officer, a lack of social small talk hadn’t mattered and courage, determination and inspired leadership — which Alastair had never failed to show them — these had been the criterion of popular esteem. As they were amongst the simple folk of Carra, who trusted and revered him.

“Well?” Alastair said, sliding his long body into a chair and puffing contentedly at his pipe. “What is the news? Margaret said that old Menzies had ‘phoned. Our American lady coming up to scratch or what?”

Very briefly and concisely, Peter told him, omitting only to mention the fact that “the American lady” was arriving, with his connivance, next day. This, he decided, would keep until Margaret brought in the tea she was now brewing in the outer office and he had — if not an ally — then at least a partner in crime.

Alastair heard him in silence and, for a long moment after Peter had stopped speaking, he did not utter a word. His face was, as always, inscrutable. At last he got heavily to his feet and said, his tone quiet and devoid of emotion:

“I see. Then I shall have to leave Carra, shan’t I? Because we’ve got to sell, we haven’t any choice — or any other buyer. And she’s quite right. My staying on after she’s bought the place wouldn’t be fair. I hadn’t looked at it from her angle before. Well——” he smiled at Peter and

reached across him for the ‘phone. “I’d better ring up old Menzies, hadn’t I? Can’t keep him twidling his thumbs in his office all evening.”

“Wait——” Peter grabbed at his wrist, wishing rather

desperately that Margaret would come in, “I haven’t told you everything yet, Alastair. I——”

Alastair sat down again. He waited expectantly, fiddling with his pipe. “Go on then, I’m listening. What haven’t you told me? Has she reduced her offer or what?”

Peter shook his head. “No, that stands. But—she wants to come here.”

“Well,” put in Alastair, “that’s reasonable. We can’t expect her to buy a property she hasn’t seen, even if she is an American and her ancestors came from Carra.”

Peter gulped. “She—wants to come tomorrow. To stay at the Castle and meet you.”

Alastair got up. Again he reached for the telephone.

“That’s out of the question. Surely you told Menzies that? Or do you want me to?”

“No. I—I rang her up and arranged for her to come.”

“Tomorrow? You must be out of your mind! Good heavens, the place is a pigsty, we’ve no staff—you know perfectly well we only live in four rooms. It’ll take us weeks to get ready. An elderly American millionairess — why, she’ll have secretaries, companions, chauffeurs and the Lord knows what besides!”

“She’s coming alone and she’s not elderly,” Peter told him. Desperation lent him courage and he plunged in with as lyrical a description of Miss McColl’s beauty as Mr. Menzies’ had been, adding breathlessly: “Furthermore, my dear chap, she’s the Miss McColl, the tennis player. She’s come over for Wimbledon, that’s probably why she’s in

such a hurry — she’ll want to get things settled before she starts getting into championship trim. Menzies says that the only obstacle to the sale now is your wish to stay, to rent the Home Farm. If——”

Alastair interrupted him: “That isn’t an obstacle. I’ve said I see her point. I’ll go, naturally I’ll go.”

“Oh, don’t be an idiot, Alastair,” Peter said, exasperated, “you know it’ll just about break you up to leave. Don’t you see, man” — in his eagerness, he again gripped Alastair’s wrist — “if you play your cards right, you’ll be able to stay! That’s why I rang her up and told her to come tomorrow — that’s why Margaret and I have just about killed ourselves, getting the Castle ready. And it is ready, it’s fit for a queen. I got the ghillies and the gardners in and their wives — actually they’re still at it and MacTavish is cleaning up all the silver now, so that we can use it. We’ve opened the dining-room and the drawing-room and the picture gallery, we’ve——”

“What exactly do you mean, Peter,” Alastair asked ominously, “by ‘playing my cards right’?”

Peter, caught unprepared by this question, floundered a little as he attempted to answer it. “Well, be nice to her, put on an act, charm her. She’ll end up by making it a condition that you do stay. You could easily talk her into it — you know, if you tried hard enough. Good lord, all the women fall for you, flat as ninepins, they always do.”

“Do they?” Alastair spoke coldly. “I hadn’t noticed it.”

“That’s only because you don’t want to notice. I know they do.”

“How do you know?”

“Damn it, because they tell me, of course! Margaret weeps on my shoulder by the hour, instead of getting on with the accounts.”

“Margaret? Oh, nonsense, she’s only a child.” But his face softened, Peter noticed. He was suddenly struck with an idea.

“Alastair—Alastair, I’ve got it!”

furious!

“I don’t know,” said Peter grimly, “but, whatever it is, we’ll have to do it pretty smartly. Miss McColl will be here at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

They looked at each other helplessly. “What did you say to him?” Margaret asked suspiciously. “To make him so furious?”

“Nothing. Well, I mean, I told him about Miss McColl coming and what we’d done,” Peter evaded. He looked longingly at the tea. “I suppose we haven’t time for a cup? My tongue’s hanging out. I’m not really used to scrubbing floors.”

“Nor am I,” agreed Margaret ruefully, “but I think we’ll have to go and try to smooth Alastair down. Because he won’t get any dinner, you know — Mrs. McTavish says she can’t cook and get the West Bedroom ready for this Miss McColl, so I told her I’d do bacon and eggs. And I don’t do them very well, do I?” she added, meeting Peter’s gaze unhappily, “anyway, Daddy says I don’t. But perhaps——”

“Never mind that—I’ll rustle up a meal. You get to work on Alastair. He’s simply got to be polite to Miss McColl, Margaret. It’s his only hope of staying on here, you know.”

Margaret nodded. “All right. But I don’t think Alastair would be rude to a guest, however angry he was. And especially to one who’s probably old enough to be his mother, like Miss McColl.”

Peter’s conscience smote him. Good Lord, he hadn’t in all this rush, told Margaret that Miss McColl was not the elderly spinster they had all imagined her! He glanced at her quickly and decided that now was not the most propitious moment in which to enlighten her. He would wait, at any rate, until she’d done what she could with Alastair. Because he needed her help, not only in this but also in matters domestic. He was starting to say so when, to his astonishment, the door opened and Alastair reappeared.

Peter and Margaret sprang guiltily apart but Alastair said indifferently: “Oh, don’t mind me. I forgot to ring up Menzies.”

“What,” Peter managed, “are you going to tell him?”

Alastair’s dark brows went up. “That we’re expecting Miss McColl, of course. There’s nothing else I can tell him. You see, I intend to sell Carra.” The emphasis on the last word, though slight, was unmistakable, and Peter reddened. “Whilst we’re on the subject,” Alastair continued, “you had better prepare for an early start tomorrow, Peter. Because you’re going across to Oban to meet her . . .” he lifted the ‘phone. “Glasgow Central 31676, please,” he said coldly, into the mouthpiece and to Peter he added: “I hope it keeps fine for you, cousin!” There was a note of mockery in his voice and Peter’s heart sank as he heard it. But he couldn’t argue.

He had, he told himself bitterly, asked for it.

He was still telling himself this when, punctually at noon next day, he inquired for Cornelia McColl at the desk of the Grand Hotel at Oban . . .