“Is that the island?” Mr. Wilkinson asked.

“Aye. That’s Cara right enough.”

“Cara!” Mr. Wilkinson stood on the jetty looking out at the long, low shadow of the island, dark against the setting sun. Beyond it, he knew, the nearest land was North America. He was at the ultimate edge of the Western Isles. It was a supremely romantic spot, and he looked supremely ridiculous there, in his dark city suit, with his neat city brief-case under his arm.

“Cara!” he repeated. “A beautiful place, and a beautiful name.”

“It’s the Gaelic word for a corpse.”

Mr. Wilkinson looked again. Seen against the light, the island did resemble a human body, laid out upon its back. He could distinguish the shrouded outline of a head, a waisted trunk, a pair of stiff, upturned feet. . . . He shivered. It was getting distinctly chilly down by the shore.

“I shall see you tomorrow, then?” he said to the boatman.

“Aye. The tide will be right about ten. If it’s fine we shall be in Cara within the hour.”

“And if it’s rough?”

“If it’s rough we shall no’ be going.” There was a flat finality about Dugald Macdougal’s pronouncement that precluded argument. “The sound is no place for a small boat when the wind’s blowing up from the sou’-west. There was a man tried it last spring. He hired Rory Maconner’s boat and went alone. Rory was lucky. He got his boat back. She came ashore three days later, bottom up. The other fellow wasn’t so lucky.”

***

“Is that the island?” Mr. Wilkinson asked.

“Aye. That’s Cara right enough.”

“Cara!” Mr. Wilkinson stood on the jetty looking out at the long, low shadow of the island, dark against the setting sun. Beyond it, he knew, the nearest land was North America. He was at the ultimate edge of the Western Isles. It was a supremely romantic spot, and he looked supremely ridiculous there, in his dark city suit, with his neat city brief-case under his arm.

“Cara!” he repeated. “A beautiful place, and a beautiful name.”

“It’s the Gaelic word for a corpse.”

Mr. Wilkinson looked again. Seen against the light, the island did resemble a human body, laid out upon its back. He could distinguish the shrouded outline of a head, a waisted trunk, a pair of stiff, upturned feet. . . . He shivered. It was getting distinctly chilly down by the shore.

“I shall see you tomorrow, then?” he said to the boatman.

“Aye. The tide will be right about ten. If it’s fine we shall be in Cara within the hour.”

“And if it’s rough?”

“If it’s rough we shall no’ be going.” There was a flat finality about Dugald Macdougal’s pronouncement that precluded argument. “The sound is no place for a small boat when the wind’s blowing up from the sou’-west. There was a man tried it last spring. He hired Rory Maconner’s boat and went alone. Rory was lucky. He got his boat back. She came ashore three days later, bottom up. The other fellow wasn’t so lucky.”

***

When Wilkinson’s plane touched down at Glasgow airport it was met by two specially selected police officers. Quietly and unobtrusively they took Wilkinson in tow, and escorted him to a car. At headquarters his brief-case was taken from him and its contents examined by experts. While this was going on, two very senior officers—one Scottish and one from Scotland Yard—were questioning him closely.

Presently a plain-clothes man joined them. He had with him Wilkinson’s map of Cara.

“This has Fergus Farnby’s prints on it all right,” he said. “I’m much obliged, sir. It’s a good clear set.”

“It ought to be,” Wilkinson observed. “That table was greasy enough in all conscience.”

“So he did get to Cara in Rory’s boat after all,” said the man from Scotland Yard. “He was one jump ahead of us all the way. What happened then, do you think?”

“There wasn’t room on the island for two of them,” said his Glasgow colleague. “Jamie Filby tried to turn his brother away, I have no doubt. The brother stayed and Jamie—disappeared. It’s a grim thought.”

“I had a quick look over the island before I left,” said Wilkinson, “and there is a patch of soft ground near the house that might repay attention. Or possibly something will turn up when we start exploiting the silicate sand.”

“You mean to go on with that, if you can?”

“Bless you, yes! We’ve been after the Cara concession for years. Filby would never so much as talk to anyone we sent to discuss the matter. This man was interested as soon as I started to talk business. I didn’t need fingerprints to tell me he was your man.”