The Mystery of the Green Ray

“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 that this green ray is some chemical production of Nature unassisted there isn’t the same reason for you to leave us.”

“No, that’s true,” he agreed, “but we were both a bit scared yesterday, old chap, and the more I think of this dog business the less I like it. It was mere conceit on my part that made me say it was bound to be some natural phenomenon merely because I couldn’t understand how the effect could have been humanly produced.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “our best course would be to keep an open mind about the whole thing.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I’m with you entirely. And in that case my going away is not going to aggravate the effects of a natural phenomenon, while it may restrain the human agency by removing the necessity for further activity.”

“Well, that’s sound enough,” I acquiesced; “but I shall hear from you, I hope?”

“Of course, my dear fellow,” he laughed, “we’re in this thing together. You’ll hear from me as often as you want, and who knows what else besides. I have no intention of dropping this for a minute, Ewart. But I think I can do more if I am not on the spot. We’re agreed that my presence here may be a source of danger to you all.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think yours is the best plan. What do you propose to do?”

“Well, to begin with, I shall devote an hour or two to knocking our panic theory on the head.”