But I had enough to think
about. Every event connected with this visit seemed to touch on
some mystery. There was his strange letter to me in reply to my
note that I was in England and coming up to Scotland. Surely no
man ever wrote a queerer letter to a nephew coming on a visit to
him.
It dwelt on the length of the journey and the remoteness of the
place. I was to be discouraged in every sentence. I was to
carry his affectionate regards to the family in America and say
that he was in health.
It stood out plainly that I was not wanted.
This was strange in itself, but it was not the strangest thing
about this letter. The strangest thing was a word written in a
shaky cramped hand on the back of the sheet: the letters huddled
together: "Come!"
I would have believed my uncle justified in his note. It was a
long journey. I had great difficulty to find anyone to take me
out from the railway station. There were idle men enough, but
they shook their heads when I named the house. Finally, for a
double wage, I got an old gillie with a cart to bring me as far
on the way as the highroad ran. But he would not turn into the
unkept road that led over the moor to the house.
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