d beside him was
the tall figure of my friend J. G. Hilderman. As I looked up at him I
wondered if he recognised me; but it was evident he did, for he raised
his cap and waved to me. I returned the compliment as well as I could,
for just then Myra turned and implored me not to run into the
lighthouse.

"Someone you know?" she asked, as I righted our course.

"Only a chap I met on the train," I explained.

"It looks like the tenant of Glasnabinnie, but I couldn't be certain.
I've never met him, and I've only seen him once."

"Glasnabinnie!" I exclaimed, with a new interest. "Really! Why, that's
quite close to you, surely?"

"Just the other side of the loch, directly opposite us. A good swimmer
could swim across, but a motor would take days to go round. So we're
really a long way off, and unless he turns up at some local function
we're not likely to meet him. He's said to be an American millionaire;
but then every American in these parts is supposed to have at least
one million of money."

"Do you know anything about him--what he does, or did?" I asked.

"Absolutely nothing," she replied, "except, of course, the silly
rumours that one always hears about strangers. He took Glasnabinnie in
May--in fact, the last week of April, I believe. That rather surprised
us, because it was very early for summer visitors. But he showed his
good sense in doing so, as the country was looking gorgeous--Sgriol,
na Ciche, and the Cuchulins under snow. I've heard (Angus McGeochan,
one of our crofters, told me) he was an inventor, and had made a few
odd millions out of a machine for sticking labels on canned meat. That
and the fact that he is a very keen amateur photographer is the
complete history of Mr. Hilderman so far as I know it. Anyway, he has
a gorgeous view, hasn't he? It's nearly as good as ours."

"He has indeed," I agreed readily. "But I don't think Hilderman can be
very wealthy; no fishing goes with Glasnabinnie, there's no yacht
anchorage, and there's no road to motor on. How does he get about?"

"He's got a beautiful Wolseley launch," said Myra jealously, "a
perfect beauty. He calls her the _Baltimore II._ She was lying
alongside the _Hermione_ at Mallaig when we left. Oh! look up the
loch, Ron! Isn't it a wonderful view?"

And so the magnificent purple-gray summit of Sgor na Ciche, at the
head of Loch Nevis, claimed our attention--(that and other matters of
a personal nature)--and J. G. Hilderman went completely fro