Jock emitted another blast of genial laughter and Mr. Scollay as
cautiously as ever replied,

"A good few."

But there was no sign of any secret understanding of my words, and
reluctantly I began to come to the conclusion that neither my friend of
last night nor any of his confederates were here. It is true that the
position of the house fitted my theory, and that its lonely situation on
the very edge of the sea was ideal, and quite possibly these people might
know more than they ought, they might in fact be abettors of treason and
concealers of traitors, but that they were not the principals seemed
evident enough.

Still, in any event it seemed to me of prime importance to disseminate a
report of a suspicious stranger as widely and quickly as possible, so I
selected the middle of another mouthful as the moment of enquiring.

"This pretty farm, my friend, does it belong to you?"

"No," said my host, "the island a' belongs to Mr. Rendall."

"So!" said I. "And this Mr. Rendall, where does he live--in London?"

"Not him!" said Mr. Scollay, "he bides in Ransay."

I pricked up my ears at this, and my spy-hunt seemed suddenly a much more
promising venture. Some of the difficulties of playing a lone hand had
already become apparent. But with some one I could confide in, some one
who would know everybody in the island and a good deal about them, and