But now I began to
reconsider this decision very seriously.
I was out of sight by this time in a secluded part of the road, where it
ran through a dip in the ground, with the head of one of those little
reedy lochs only a yard or two away, and a bright glimpse of the sea
beyond. The marshy shores were a perfect blaze of yellow wild flowers and
it looked so jolly that I sat down on the water's edge and began to think
things over.
First I thought Mr. O'Brien over. Middle height, a beard, and an Irish
brogue. Could the German accent have been put on to conceal the brogue?
Looking to what I was doing myself, why not? Then I thought Dr. Rendall
over. Also middle height, a moustache, and no particular accent. But then
again, if I put on an accent, why not he? Then I thought over what I had
learned of the laird. A cousin of the doctor's, a "damned queer fish,"
almost the only associate of this couple, and hard up. Ought I to go
straight off and confide in him?
"Not to begin with anyhow!" I said to myself, and up I jumped and
continued my walk.
About a hundred yards further on I rounded a corner and came upon a very
miserable figure. He was an old, old man with tinted spectacles and a
long white beard, and the raggedest overcoat I ever saw, and he was
sitting on the grass with his feet in the ditch apparently doing nothing
but simply sitting still.
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