Miss Rendall seemed, in fact, to have
distinctly more natural capacity for detective work than I had, judging
by her performances so far.
So I plunged straight into the tale of my first landing on Ransay and my
adventure with the oilskinned man on the shore, and may I always have as
attentive an audience when I tell a story.
"So there is actually a German who dares to live on Ransay!" she
exclaimed, her cheeks flushing a little.
"A man whom I certainly took to be a German--a man who talks German
fluently."
She fell very thoughtful and presently repeated,
"Middle-sized--with a beard--and dark eyes?"
"Yes," I said confidently; for somehow or other I began to feel
singularly sure of these features.
"Of course I know who you suspect," she said, looking up suddenly. "And
you had him removed from the island afterwards."
"You mean O'Brien? Yes, I did suspect him--though, mind you, I had
nothing to go on. Do you know if he talked German?"
"He once told me he did, but I never heard him, and I didn't
believe him."
"Why not?"
"One couldn't believe half he said, and I don't think he intended one to.
He was very Irish. But I don't believe he was the man."
"Why not?" I asked again.
"Oh, just because I don't. And what happened next?"
I told her of my night at the Scollays' and my plan for trapping the
spies.
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