Merton prevented himself, by an effort, from gasping. He kept a countenance of cold attention. But the marquis was coming to the point.

'I have left all to the name, lands and rents, and mines, and money. But, unless the lad marries in his own rank, I'll change my will. It's in the hidie hole at Kirkburn, that Logan built to keep King Jamie in, when he caught him. But the fool Ruthvens marred that job, and got their kail through the reek. I'm wandering.' He helped himself to another dram, and went on, 'Ye see what I want, ye must stop that marriage.'

'But,' said Merton, 'as you are so kindly disposed towards your kinsman, this Mr. Logan, may I ask whether it would not be wise to address him yourself, as the head of his house? He may, surely he will, listen to your objections.'

'Ye do not know the Logans.'

Merton concealed his smile.

'Camstairy deevils! It's in the blood. Never once has he asked me for a pound, never noticed me by word or letter. Faith, I wish all the world had been as considerate to auld Restalrig! For me to say a word, let be to make an offer, would just tie him faster to the lass. "Tyne troth, tyne a'," that is the old bye-word.'

Merton recognised his friend in this description, but he merely shook a sympathetic head. 'Very unusual,' he remarked. 'You really have no hope by this method?'

'None at all, or I would not be here on this daft ploy. There's no fool like an auld fool, and, faith, I hardly know the man I was. But they cannot dispute the will. I drew doctors to witness that I was of sound and disponing mind, and I've since been thrice to kirk and market. Lord, how they stared to see auld Restalrig in his pew, that had not smelt appleringie these forty years.'

Merton noted these words, which he thought curious and obscure. 'Your case interests me deeply,' he said, 'and shall receive my very best attention. You perceive, of course, that it is a difficult case, Mr. Logan's character and tenacity being what you describe. I must make careful inquiries, and shall inform you of progress. You wish to see this engagement ended?'

'And the lad on with a lass of his rank,' said the marquis.

'Probably that will follow quickly on the close of his present affection. It usually does in our experience,' said Merton, adding, 'Am I to write to you at your London address?'

'No, sir; these London hotels would ruin the cunzie' (the Mint).

Merton wondered whether the Cunzie was the title of some wealthy Scotch peer.

'And I'm off for Kirkburn by the night express. Here's wishing luck,' and the old sinner finished the brandy.

'May I call a cab for you—it still rains?'

'No, no, I'll travel,' by which the economical peer meant that he would walk.

He then shook Merton by the hand, and hobbled downstairs attended by his adviser.

'Did Mr. Logan call?' Merton asked the office boy when the marquis had trotted off.

'Yes, sir; he said you would find him at the club.'

'Call a hansom,' said Merton, 'and put up the notice, "out."' He drove to the club, where he found Logan ordering luncheon.

'Hullo, shall we lunch together?' Logan asked.

'Not yet: I want to speak to you.'

'Nothing gone wrong? Why did you shut me out of the office?'

'Where can we talk without being disturbed?'

'Try the smoking-room on the top storey,' said Logan, 'Nobody will have climbed so high so early.'

They made the ascent, and found the room vacant: the windows looked out over swirling smoke and trees tossing in a wind of early spring.

'Quiet enough,' said Logan, taking an arm-chair. 'Now out with it! You make me quite nervous.'

'A client has come with what looks a promising piece of business. We are to disentangle—'

'A royal duke?'

'No. You!'

'A practical joke,' said Logan. 'Somebody pulling your leg, as people say, a most idiotic way of speaking. What sort of client was he, or she? We'll be even with them.'

'The client's card is here,' said Merton, and he handed to Logan that of the Marquis of Restalrig.

'You never saw him before; are you sure it was the man?' asked Logan, staggered in his scepticism.

'A very good imitation. Dressed like a farmer at a funeral. Talked like all the kailyards. Snuffed, and asked for brandy, and went and came, walking, in this weather.'

'By Jove, it is my venerated cousin. And he had heard about me and Miss —-'

'He was quite well informed.'

Logan looked very grave. He rose and stared out of the window into the mist. Then he came back, and stood beside Merton's chair. He spoke in a low voice:

'This can only mean one thing.'

'Only that one thing,' said Merton, dropping his own voice.

'What did you say to him?'

'I told him that his best plan, as the head of the house, was to approach you himself.'

'And he said?'

'That it was of no use, and that I do not know the Logans.'

'But you do?'

'I think so.'

'You think right. No, not for all his lands and mines I won't.'

'Not for the name?'

'Not for the kingdoms of the earth,' said Logan.

'It is a great refusal.'

'I have really no temptation to accept,' said Logan. 'I am not built that way. So what next? If the old boy could only see her—'

'I doubt if that would do any good, though, of course, if I were you I should think so. He goes north to-night. You can't take the lady to Kirkburn. And you can't write to him.'

'Of course not,' said Logan; 'of course it would be all up if he knew that I know.'

'There is this to be said—it is not a very pleasant view to take—he can't live long. He came to see some London specialist—it is his heart, I think—'

'His heart!

How Fortune aristophanises And how severe the fun of Fate!'

quoted Logan.

'The odd thing is,' said Merton, 'that I do believe he has a heart. I rather like him. At all events, I think, from what I saw, that a sudden start might set him off at any moment, or an unusual exertion. And he may go off before I tell him that I can do nothing with you—'

'Oh, hang that,' said Logan, 'you make me feel like a beastly assassin!'

'I only want you to understand how the land lies.' Merton dropped his voice again, 'He has made a will leaving you everything.'

'Poor old cock! Look here, I believe I had better write, and say that I'm awfully touched and obliged, but that I can't come into his views, or break my word, and then, you know, he can just make another will. It would be a swindle to let him die, and come into his property, and then go dead against his wishes.'

'But it would be all right to give me away, I suppose, and let him understand that I had violated professional confidence?'

'Only with a member of the firm. That is no violation.'

'But then I should have told him that you were a member of the firm.'

'I'm afraid you should.'

'Logan, you have the ideas of a schoolboy. I had to be certain as to how you would take it, though, of course, I had a very good guess. And as to what you say about the chances of his dying and leaving everything where he would not have left it if he had been sure you would act against his wishes—I believe you are wrong. What he really cares about is "the name." His ghost will put up with your disobedience if the name keeps its old place. Do you see?'

'Perhaps you are right,' said Logan.

'Anyhow, there is no such pressing hurry. One may bring him round with time. A curious old survival! I did not understand all that he said. There was something about having been thrice at kirk and market since he made his will; and something about not having smelled appleringie for forty years. What is appleringie?'

Logan laughed.

'It is a sacred Presbyterian herb. The people keep it in their Bibles and it perfumes the churches. But look here—'

He was interrupted by the entrance of a page, who handed to him a letter. Logan read it and laughed. 'I knew it; they are sharp!' he said, and handed the letter to Merton. It was from a famous, or infamous, money- lender, offering princely accommodation on terms which Mr. Logan would find easy and reasonable.

'They have nosed the appleringie, you see,' he said.

'But I don't see,' said Merton.

'Why the hounds have heard that the old nobleman has been thrice to kirk lately. And as he had not been there for forty years, they have guessed that he has been making his will. Scots law has, or used to have, something in it about going thrice to kirk and market after making a will—disponing they call it—as a proof of bodily and mental soundness. So they have spotted the marquis's pious motives for kirk-going, and guessed that I am his heir. I say—' Logan began to laugh wildly.

'What do you say?' asked Merton, but Logan went on hooting.

'I say,' he repeated, 'it must never be known that the old lord came to consult us,' and here he was again convulsed.

'Of course not,' said Merton. 'But where is the joke?'

'Why, don't you see—oh, it is too good—he has taken every kind of precaution to establish his sanity when he made his will.'

'He told me that he had got expert evidence,' said Merton.

'And then he comes and consults US!' said Logan, with a crow of laughter. 'If any fellow wants to break the will on the score of insanity, and knows, knows he came to us, a jury, when they find he consulted us, will jolly well upset the cart.' Merton was hurt.

'Logan,' he said, 'it is you who ought to be in an asylum, an Asylum for Incurable Children. Don't you see that he made the will long before he took the very natural and proper step of consulting Messrs. Gray and Graham?'

'Let us pray that, if there is a suit, it won't come before a Scotch jury,' said Logan. 'Anyhow, nobody knows that he came except you and me.'

'And the office boy,' said Merton.

'Oh, we'll square the office boy,' said Logan. 'Let's lunch!'

They lunched, and Logan, as was natural, though Merton urged him to abstain, hung about the doors of Madame Claudine's emporium at the hour when the young ladies returned to their homes. He walked home with Miss Markham. He told her about his chances, and his views, and no doubt she did not think him a person of schoolboy ideas, but a Bayard.

Two days passed, and in the afternoon of the third a telegram arrived for Logan from Kirkburn.

'Come at once, Marquis very ill. Dr. Douglas, Kirkburn.'

There was no express train North till 8.45 in the evening. Merton dined with Logan at King's Cross, and saw him off. He would reach his cousin's house at about six in the morning if the train kept time.

About nine o'clock on the morning following Logan's arrival at Kirkburn Merton was awakened: the servant handed to him a telegram.

'Come instantly. Highly important. Logan, Kirkburn.'

Merton dressed himself more rapidly than he had ever done, and caught the train leaving King's Cross at 10 a.m.



II. The Emu's Feathers

The landscape through which Merton passed on his northward way to Kirkburn, whither Logan had summoned him, was blank with snow. The snow was not more than a couple of inches deep where it had not drifted, and, as frost had set in, it was not likely to deepen. There was no fear of being snowed up.

Merton naturally passed a good deal of his time in wondering what had occurred at Kirkburn, and why Logan needed his presence. 'The poor old gentleman has passed away suddenly, I suppose,' he reflected, 'and Logan may think that I know where he has deposited his will. It is in some place that the marquis called "the hidie hole," and that, from his vagrant remarks, appears to be a secret chamber, as his ancestor meant to keep James VI. there. I wish he had cut the throat of that prince, a bad fellow. But, of course, I don't know where the chamber is: probably some of the people about the place know, or the lawyer who made the will.'

However freely Merton's consciousness might play round the problem, he could get no nearer to its solution. At Berwick he had to leave the express, and take a local train. In the station, not a nice station, he was accosted by a stranger, who asked if he was Mr. Merton? The stranger, a wholesome, red-faced, black-haired man, on being answered in the affirmative, introduced himself as Dr. Douglas, of Kirkburn. 'You telegraphed to my friend Logan the news of the marquis's illness,' said Merton. 'I fear you have no better news to give me.'

Dr. Douglas shook his head.

A curious little crowd was watching the pair from a short distance. There was an air of solemnity about the people, which was not wholly due to the chill grey late afternoon, and the melancholy sea.

'We have an hour to wait, Mr. Merton, before the local train starts, and afterwards there is a bit of a drive. It is cold, we would be as well in the inn as here.'

The doctor beat his gloved hands together to restore the circulation.

Merton saw that the doctor wished to be with him in private, and the two walked down into the town, where they got a comfortable room, the doctor ordering boiling water and the other elements of what he called 'a cheerer.' When the cups which cheer had been brought, and the men were alone, the doctor said:

'It is as you suppose, Mr. Merton, but worse.'

'Great heaven, no accident has happened to Logan?' asked Merton.

'No, sir, and he would have met you himself at Berwick, but he is engaged in making inquiries and taking precautions at Kirkburn.'

'You do not mean that there is any reason to suspect foul play? The marquis, I know, was in bad health. You do not suspect—murder?'

'No, sir, but—the marquis is gone.'

'I know he is gone, your telegram and what I observed of his health led me to fear the worst.'

'But his body is gone—vanished.'

'You suppose that it has been stolen (you know the American and other cases of the same kind) for the purpose of extracting money from the heir?'

'That is the obvious view, whoever the heir may be. So far, no will has been found,' the doctor added some sugar to his cheerer, and some whisky to correct the sugar. 'The neighbourhood is very much excited. Mr. Logan has telegraphed to London for detectives.'

Merton reflected in silence.

'The obvious view is not always the correct one,' he said. 'The marquis was, at least I thought that he was, a very eccentric person.'

'No doubt about that,' said the doctor.

'Very well. He had reasons, such reasons as might occur to a mind like his, for wanting to test the character and conduct of Mr. Logan, his only living kinsman. What I am going to say will seem absurd to you, but—the marquis spoke to me of his malady as a kind of "dwawming," I did not know what he meant, at the time, but yesterday I consulted the glossary of a Scotch novel: to dwawm, I think, is to lose consciousness?'

The doctor nodded.

'Now you have read,' said Merton, 'the case published by Dr. Cheyne, of a gentleman, Colonel Townsend, who could voluntarily produce a state of "dwawm" which was not then to be distinguished from death?'

'I have read it in the notes to Aytoun's Scottish Cavaliers,' said the doctor.

'Now, then, suppose that the marquis, waking out of such a state, whether voluntarily induced (which is very improbable) or not, thought fit to withdraw himself, for the purpose of secretly watching, from some retreat, the behaviour of his heir, if he has made Mr. Logan his heir? Is that hypothesis absolutely out of keeping with his curious character?'

'No. It's crazy enough, if you will excuse me, but, for these last few weeks, at any rate, I would have swithered about signing a fresh certificate to the marquis's sanity.'

'You did, perhaps, sign one when he made his will, as he told me?'

'I, and Dr. Gourlay, and Professor Grant,' the doctor named two celebrated Edinburgh specialists. 'But just of late I would not be so certain.'

'Then my theory need not necessarily be wrong?'

'It can't but be wrong. First, I saw the man dead.'

'Absolute tests of death are hardly to be procured, of course you know that better than I do,' said Merton.

'Yes, but I am positive, or as positive as one can be, in the circumstances. However, that is not what I stand on. There was a witness who saw the marquis go.'

'Go—how did he go?'

'He disappeared.'

'The body disappeared?'

'It did, but you had better hear the witness's own account; I don't think a second-hand story will convince you, especially as you have a theory.'

'Was the witness a man or a woman?'

'A woman,' said the doctor.

'Oh!' said Merton.

'I know what you mean,' said the doctor. 'You think, it suits your theory, that the marquis came to himself and—'

'And squared the female watcher,' interrupted Merton; 'she would assist him in his crazy stratagem.'

'Mr. Merton, you've read ower many novels,' said the doctor, lapsing into the vernacular. 'Well, your notion is not unthinkable, nor pheesically impossible. She's a queer one, Jean Bower, that waked the corpse, sure enough. However, you'll soon be on the spot, and can examine the case for yourself. Mr. Logan has no idea but that the body was stolen for purposes of blackmail.' He looked at his watch. 'We must be going to catch the train, if she's anything like punctual.'

The pair walked in silence to the station, were again watched curiously by the public (who appeared to treat the station as a club), and after three-quarters of an hour of slow motion and stoppages, arrived at their destination, Drem.

The doctor's own man with a dog-cart was in waiting.

'The marquis had neither machine nor horse,' the doctor explained.

Through the bleak late twilight they were driven, past two or three squalid mining villages, along a road where the ruts showed black as coal through the freezing snow. Out of one village, the lights twinkling in the windows, they turned up a steep road, which, after a couple of hundred yards, brought them to the old stone gate posts, surmounted by heraldic animals.

'The late marquis sold the worked-iron gates to a dealer,' said the doctor.

At the avenue gates, so steep was the ascent, both men got out and walked.

'You see the pits come up close to the house,' said the doctor, as they reached the crest. He pointed to some tall chimneys on the eastern slope, which sank quite gradually to the neighbouring German Ocean, but ended in an abrupt rocky cliff.

'Is that a fishing village in the cleft of the cliffs? I think I see a red roof,' said Merton.

'Ay, that's Strutherwick, a fishing village,' replied the doctor.

'A very easy place, on your theory, for an escape with the body by boat,' said Merton.

'Ay, that is just it,' acquiesced the doctor.

'But,' asked Merton, as they reached the level, and saw the old keep black in front of them, 'what is that rope stretched about the lawn for? It seems to go all round the house, and there are watchers.' Dark figures with lanterns were visible at intervals, as Merton peered into the gathering gloom. The watchers paced to and fro like sentinels.

The door of the house opened, and a man's figure stood out against the lamp light within.

'Is that you, Merton?' came Logan's voice from the doorway.

Merton answered; and the doctor remarked, 'Mr. Logan will tell you what the rope's for.'

The friends shook hands; the doctor, having deposited Merton's baggage, pleaded an engagement, and said 'Good-bye,' among the thanks of Logan. An old man, a kind of silent Caleb Balderstone, carried Merton's light luggage up a black turnpike stair.

'I've put you in the turret; it is the least dilapidated room,' said Logan. 'Now, come in here.'

He led the way into a hall on the ground-floor. A great fire in the ancient hearth, with its heavy heraldically carved stone chimney-piece, lit up the desolation of the chamber.

'Sit down and warm yourself,' said Logan, pushing forward a ponderous oaken chair, with a high back and short arms.

'I know a good deal,' said Merton, his curiosity hurrying him to the point; 'but first, Logan, what is the rope on the stakes driven in round the house for?'

'That was my first precaution,' said Logan. 'I heard of the—of what has happened—about four in the morning, and I instantly knocked in the stakes—hard work with the frozen ground—and drew the rope along, to isolate the snow about the house. When I had done that, I searched the snow for footmarks.'

'When had the snow begun to fall?'

'About midnight. I turned out then to look at the night before going to bed.'

'And there was nothing wrong then?'

'He lay on his bed in the laird's chamber. I had just left it. I left him with the watcher of the dead. There was a plate of salt on his breast. The housekeeper, Mrs. Bower, keeps up the old ways. Candles were burning all round the bed. A fearful waste he would have thought it, poor old man. The devils! If I could get on their track!' said Logan, clenching his fist.

'You have found no tracks, then?'

'None. When I examined the snow there was not a footmark on the roads to the back door or the front—not a footmark on the whole area.'

'Then the removal of the body from the bedroom was done from within. Probably the body is still in the house.'

'Certainly it has been taken out by no known exit, if it has been taken out, as I believe. I at once arranged relays of sentinels—men from the coal-pits. But the body is gone; I am certain of it. A fishing-boat went out from the village, Strutherwick, before the dawn. It came into the little harbour after midnight—some night-wandering lover saw it enter—and it must have sailed again before dawn.'

'Did you examine the snow near the harbour?'

'I could not be everywhere at once, and I was single-handed; but I sent down the old serving-man, John Bower. He is stupid enough, but I gave him a note to any fisherman he might meet. Of course these people are not detectives.'

'And was there any result?'

'Yes; an odd one. But it confirms the obvious theory of body-snatching. Of course, fishers are early risers, and they went trampling about confusedly. But they did find curious tracks. We have isolated some of them, and even managed to carry off a couple. We dug round them, and lifted them. A neighbouring laird, Mr. Maitland, lent his ice-house for storing these, and I had one laid down on the north side of this house to show you, if the frost held. No ice-house or refrigerator here, of course.'

'Let me see it now.'

Logan took a lighted candle—the night was frosty, without a wind—and led Merton out under the black, ivy-clad walls. Merton threw his greatcoat on the snow and knelt on it, peering at the object. He saw a large flat clod of snow and earth. On its surface was the faint impress of a long oval, longer than the human foot; feathery marks running in both directions from the centre could be descried. Looking closer, Merton detected here and there a tiny feather and a flock or two of down adhering to the frozen mass.

'May I remove some of these feathery things?' Merton asked.

'Certainly. But why?'

'We can't carry the clod indoors, it would melt; and it may melt if the weather changes; and by bad luck there may be no feathers or down adhering to the other clods—those in the laird's ice-house.'

'You think you have a clue?'

'I think,' said Merton, 'that these are emu's feathers; but, whether they are or not, they look like a clue. Still, I think they are emu's feathers.'

'Why? The emu is not an indigenous bird.'

As he spoke, an idea—several ideas—flashed on Merton. He wished that he had held his peace. He put the little shreds into his pocket-book, rose, and donned his greatcoat. 'How cold it is!' he said. 'Logan, would you mind very much if I said no more just now about the feathers? I really have a notion—which may be a good one, or may be a silly one—and, absurd as it appears, you will seriously oblige me by letting me keep my own counsel.'

'It is damned awkward,' said Logan testily.

'Ah, old boy, but remember that "damned awkward" is a damned awkward expression.'

'You are right,' said Logan heartily; 'but I rose very early, I'm very tired, I'm rather savage. Let's go in and dine.'

'All right,' said Merton.

'I don't think,' said Logan, as they were entering the house, 'that I need keep these miners on sentry go any longer. The bird—the body, I mean—has flown. Whoever the fellows were that made these tracks, and however they got into and out of the house, they have carried the body away. I'll pay the watchers and dismiss them.'

'All right,' said Merton. 'I won't dress. I must return to town by the night train. No time to be lost.'

'No train to be caught,' said Logan, 'unless you drive or walk to Berwick from here—which you can't. You can't walk to Dunbar, to catch the 10.20, and I have nothing that you can drive.'

'Can I send a telegram to town?'

'It is four miles to the nearest telegraph station, but I dare say one of the sentinels would walk there for a consideration.'

'No use,' said Merton. 'I should need to wire in a cipher, when I come to think of it, and cipher I have none. I must go as early as I can to- morrow. Let us consult Bradshaw.'

They entered the house. Merton had a Bradshaw in his dressing-bag. They found that he could catch a train at 10.49 A.M., and be in London about 9 P.M.

'How are you to get to the station?' asked Logan. 'I'll tell you how,' he went on. 'I'll send a note to the inn at the place, and order a trap to be here at ten. That will give you lots of time. It is about four miles.'

'Thank you,' said Merton; 'I see no better way.' And while Logan went to pay and dismiss the sentries and send a messenger, a grandson of the old butler with the note to the innkeeper, Merton toiled up the narrow turnpike stair to the turret chamber. A fire had been burning all day, and in firelight almost any room looks tolerable. There was a small four- poster bed, with slender columns, a black old wardrobe, and a couple of chairs, one of the queer antiquated little dressing-tables, with many drawers, and boxes, and a tiny basin, and there was a perfectly new tub, which Logan had probably managed to obtain in the course of the day. Merton's evening clothes were neatly laid out, the shutters were closed, curtains there were none; in fact, he had been in much worse quarters.

As he dressed he mused. 'Cursed spite,' thought he, 'that ever I was born to be an amateur detective! And cursed be my confounded thirst for general information! Why did I ever know what Kurdaitcha and Interlinia mean? If I turn out to be right, oh, shade of Sherlock Holmes, what a pretty kettle of fish there will be! Suppose I drop the whole affair! But I've been ass enough to let Logan know that I have an idea. Well, we shall see how matters shape themselves. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.'

Merton descended the turnpike stair, holding on to the rope provided for that purpose in old Scotch houses. He found Logan standing by the fire in the hall. They were waited on by the old man, Bower. By tacit consent they spoke, while he was present, of anything but the subject that occupied their minds. They had quite an edible dinner—cock-a-leekie, brandered haddocks, and a pair of roasted fowls, with a mysterious sweet which was called a 'Hattit Kit.'

'It is an historical dish in this house,' said Logan. 'A favourite with our ancestor, the conspirator.'

The wine was old and good, having been laid down before the time of the late marquis.

'In the circumstances, Logan,' said Merton, when the old serving man was gone, 'you have done me very well.'

'Thanks to Mrs. Bower, our butler's wife,' said Logan. 'She is a truly remarkable woman. She and her husband, they are cousins, are members of an ancient family, our hereditary retainers. One of them, Laird Bower, was our old conspirator's go-between in the plot to kidnap the king, of which you have heard so much. Though he was an aged and ignorant man, he kept the secret so well that our ancestor was never even suspected, till his letters came to light after his death, and after Laird Bower's death too, luckily for both of them. So you see we can depend on it that this pair of domestics, and their family, were not concerned in this new abomination; so far, the robbery was not from within.'

'I am glad to hear that,' said Merton. 'I had invented a theory, too stupid to repeat, and entirely demolished by the footmarks in the snow, a theory which hypothetically implicated your old housekeeper. To be sure it did not throw any doubt on her loyalty to the house, quite the reverse.'

'What was your theory?'

'Oh, too silly for words; that the marquis had been only in a trance, had come to himself when alone with the old lady, who, the doctor said, was watching in the room, and had stolen away, to see how you would conduct yourself. Childish hypothesis! The obvious one, body-snatching, is correct. This is very good port.'

'If things had been as you thought possible, Jean Bower was not the woman to balk the marquis,' said Logan. 'But you must see her and hear her tell her own story.'

'Gladly,' said Merton, 'but first tell me yours.'

'When I arrived I found the poor old gentleman unconscious. Dr. Douglas was in attendance. About noon he pronounced life extinct. Mrs. Bower watched, or "waked" the corpse. I left her with it about midnight, as I told you; about four in the morning she aroused me with the news that the body had vanished. What I did after that you know. Now you had better hear the story from herself.'

Logan rang a handbell, there were no other bells in the keep, and asked the old serving-man, when he came, to send in Mrs. Bower.

She entered, a very aged woman, dressed in deep mourning. She was tall, her hair of an absolutely pure white, her aquiline face was drawn, her cheeks hollow, her mouth almost toothless. She made a deep courtesy, repeating it when Logan introduced 'my friend, Mr. Merton.'

'Mrs. Bower,' Logan said, 'Mr. Merton is my oldest friend, and the marquis saw him in London, and consulted him on private business a few days ago. He wishes to hear you tell what you saw the night before last.'

'Maybe, as the gentleman is English, he'll hardly understand me, my lord. I have a landward tongue,' said Mrs. Bower.

'I can interpret if Mr. Merton is puzzled, Mrs. Bower, but I think he will understand better if we go to the laird's chamber.'

Logan took two lighted candles, handing two to Merton, and the old woman led them upstairs to a room which occupied the whole front of the ancient 'peel,' or square tower, round which the rest of the house was built. The room was nearly bare of furniture, except for an old chair or two, a bureau, and a great old bed of state, facing the narrow deep window, and standing on a kind of dais, or platform of three steps. The heavy old green curtains were drawn all round it. Mrs. Bower opened them at the front and sides. At the back against the wall the curtains, embroidered with the arms of Restalrig, remained closed.

'I sat here all the night,' said Mrs. Bower, 'watching the corp that my hands had streikit. The candles were burning a' about him, the saut lay on his breast, only aefold o' linen covered him. My back was to the window, my face to his feet. I was crooning the auld dirgie; if it does nae guid, it does nae harm.' She recited in a monotone:

'When thou frae here away art past— Every nicht and all— To Whinny-muir thou comest at last, And Christ receive thy saul.

'If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon— Every nicht and all— Sit thee down and put them on, And Christ receive thy saul

'Alas, he never gave nane, puir man,' said the woman with a sob.

At this moment the door of the chamber slowly opened. The woman turned and gazed at it, frowning, her lips wide apart.

Logan went to the door, looked into the passage, closed the door and locked it; the key had to be turned twice, in the old fashion, and worked with a creaking jar.

'I had crooned thae last words,

And Christ receive thy saul,

when the door opened, as ye saw it did the now. It is weel kenned that a corp canna lie still in a room with the door hafflins open. I rose to lock it, the catch is crazy. I was backing to the door, with my face to the feet o' the corp. I saw them move backwards, slow they moved, and my heart stood still in my breist. Then I saw'—here she stepped to the head of the bed and drew apart the curtains, which opened in the middle—'I saw the curtain was open, and naething but blackness ahint it. Ye see, my Lord, ahint the bed-heid is the entrance o' the auld secret passage. The stanes hae lang syne fallen in, and closed it, but my Lord never would have the hole wa'ed up. "There's nae draught, Jean, or nane to mention, and I never was wastefu' in needless repairs," he aye said. Weel, when I looked that way, his face, down to the chafts, was within the blackness, and aye draw, drawing further ben. Then, I shame to say it, a sair dwawm cam ower me, I gae a bit chokit cry, and I kenned nae mair till I cam to mysel, a' the candles were out, and the chamber was mirk and lown. I heard the skirl o' a passing train, and I crap to the bed, and the skirl kind o' reminded me o' living folk, and I felt a' ower the bed wi' my hands. There was nae corp. Ye ken that the Enemy has power, when a corp lies in a room, and the door is hafflins closed. Whiles they sit up, and grin and yammer. I hae kenned that. Weel, how long I had lain in the dwawm I canna say. The train that skirled maun hae been a coal train that rins by about half-past three in the morning. There was a styme o' licht that streeled in at the open door, frae a candle your lordship set on a table in the lobby; the auld lord would hae nae lichts in the house after the ten hours. Sae I got to the door, and grippit to the candle, and flew off to your lordship's room, and the rest ye ken.'

'Thank you, very much, Mrs. Bower,' said Logan. 'You quite understand, Merton, don't you?'

'I thoroughly understand your story, Mrs. Bower,' said Merton.

'We need not keep you any longer, Mrs. Bower,' said Logan. 'Nobody need sit up for us; you must be terribly fatigued.'

'You wunna forget to rake out the ha' fire, my lord?' said the old lady, 'I wush your Lordship a sound sleep, and you, sir,' so she curtsied and went, Logan unlocking the door.

'And I was in London this morning!' said Merton, drawing a long breath.

'You're over Tweed, now, old man,' answered Logan, with patriotic satisfaction.

'Don't go yet,' said Merton. 'You examined the carpet of the room; no traces there of these odd muffled foot-coverings you found in the snow?'

'Not a trace of any kind. The salt was spilt, some of it lay on the floor. The plate was not broken.'

'If they came in, it would be barefoot,' said Merton.

'Of course the police left traces of official boots,' said Logan. 'Where are they now—the policemen, I mean?'

'Two are to sleep in the kitchen.'

'They found out nothing?'

'Of course not.'

'Let me look at the hole in the wall.' Merton climbed on to the bed and entered the hole. It was about six feet long by four wide. Stones had fallen in, at the back, and had closed the passage in a rough way, indeed what extent of the floor of the passage existed was huddled with stones. Merton examined the sides of the passage, which were mere rubble.

'Have you looked at the floor beneath those fallen stones?' Merton asked.

'No, by Jove, I never thought of that,' said Logan.

'How could they have been stirred without the old woman hearing the noise?'

'How do you know they were there before the marquis's death?' asked Merton, adding, 'this hole was not swept and dusted regularly. Either the entrance is beneath me, or—"the Enemy had power"—as Mrs. Bower says.'

'You must be right,' said Logan. 'I'll have the stones removed to-morrow. The thing is clear. The passage leads to somewhere outside of the house. There's an abandoned coal mine hard by, on the east. Nothing can be simpler.'

'When once you see it,' said Merton.

'Come and have a whisky and soda,' said Logan.



III. A Romance of Bradshaw

Merton slept very well in the turret room. He was aroused early by noises which he interpreted as caused by the arrival of the London detectives. But he only turned round, like the sluggard, and slumbered till Logan aroused him at eight o'clock. He descended about a quarter to nine, breakfast was at nine, and he found Logan looking much disturbed.

'They don't waste time,' said Logan, handing to Merton a letter in an opened envelope. Logan's hand trembled.

'Typewritten address, London postmark,' said Merton. 'To Robert Logan, Esq., at Kirkburn Keep, Drem, Scotland.'

Merton read the letter aloud; there was no date of place, but there were the words:

'March 6, 2.45 P.M. 'SIR,—Perhaps I ought to say my Lord—'

'What a fool the fellow is,' said Merton.

'Why?'

'Shows he is an educated man.'

'You may obtain news as to the mortal remains of your kinsman, the late Marquis of Restalrig, and as to his Will, by walking in the Burlington Arcade on March 11, between the hours of three and half- past three p.m. You must be attired in full mourning costume, carrying a glove in your left hand, and a black cane, with a silver top, in your right. A lady will drop her purse beside you. You will accost her.'

Here the letter, which was typewritten, ended.

'You won't?' said Merton. 'Never meet a black-mailer halfway.'

'I wouldn't,' said Logan. 'But look here!'

He gave Merton another letter, in outward respect exactly similar to the first, except that the figure 2 was typewritten in the left corner. The letter ran thus:

'March 6, 4.25 p.m.

'SIR,—I regret to have to trouble you with a second communication, but my former letter was posted before a change occurred in the circumstances. You will be pleased to hear that I have no longer the affliction of speaking of your noble kinsman as "the late Marquis of Restalrig."'

'Oh my prophetic soul!' said Merton, 'I guessed at first that he was not dead after all! Only catalepsy.' He went on reading: 'His Lordship recovered consciousness in circumstances which I shall not pain you by describing. He is now doing as well as can be expected, and may have several years of useful life before him. I need not point out to you that the conditions of the negotiation are now greatly altered. On the one hand, my partners and myself may seem to occupy the position of players who work a double ruff at whist. We are open to the marquis's offers for release, and to yours for his eternal absence from the scene of life and enjoyment. But it is by no means impossible that you may have scruples about outbidding your kinsman, especially as, if you did, you would, by the very fact, become subject to perpetual "black-mailing" at our hands. I speak plainly, as one man of the world to another. It is also a drawback to our position that you could attain your ends without blame or scandal (your ends being, of course, if the law so determines, immediate succession to the property of the marquis), by merely pushing us, with the aid of the police, to a fatal extreme. We are, therefore reluctantly obliged to conclude that we cannot put the marquis's life up to auction between you and him, as my partners, in the first flush of triumph, had conceived. But any movement on your side against us will be met in such a way that the consequences, both to yourself and your kinsman, will prove to the last degree prejudicial. For the rest, the arrangements specified in my earlier note of this instant (dated 2.45 P. M.) remain in force.'

Merton returned the letter to Logan. Their faces were almost equally blank.

'Let me think!' said Merton. He turned, and walked to the window. Logan re-read the letters and waited. Presently Merton came back to the fireside. 'You see, after all, this resolves itself into the ordinary dilemma of brigandage. We do not want to pay ransom, enormous ransom probably, if we can rescue the marquis, and destroy the gang. But the marquis himself—'

'Oh, he would never offer terms that they would accept,' said Logan, with conviction. 'But I would stick at no ransom, of course.'

'But suppose that I see a way of defeating the scoundrels, would you let me risk it?'

'If you neither imperil yourself nor him too much.'

'Never mind me, I like it. And, as for him, they will be very loth to destroy their winning card.'

'You'll be cautious?'

'Naturally, but, as this place and the stations are sure to be watched, as the trains are slow, local, and inconvenient, and as, thanks to the economy of the marquis, you have no horses, it will be horribly difficult for me to leave the house and get to London and to work without their spotting me. It is absolutely essential to my scheme that I should not be known to be in town, and that I should be supposed to be here. I'll think it out. In the meantime we must do what we can to throw dust in the eyes of the enemy. Wire an identical advertisement to all the London papers; I'll write it.'

Merton went to a table on which lay some writing materials, and wrote:—

'BURLINGTON ARCADE. SILVER-TOPPED EBONY STICK. Any offer made by the other party will be doubled on receipt of that consignment uninjured. Will meet the lady. Traps shall be kept here till after the date you mention. CHURCH BROOK.'

'Now,' said Merton, 'he will see that Church Brook is Kirkburn, and that you will be liberal. And he will understand that the detectives are not to return to London. You did not show them the letters?'

'Of course not till you saw them, and I won't.'

'And, if nothing can be done before the eleventh, why you must promenade in the Burlington Arcade.'

'You see one weak point in your offers, don't you?'

'Which?'

'Why, suppose they do release the marquis, how am I to get the money to pay double his offer? He won't stump up and recoup me.'

Merton laughed. 'We must risk it,' he said. 'And, in the changed circumstances, the tin might be raised on a post-obit. But he won't bid high; you may double safely enough.'

On considering these ideas Logan looked relieved. 'Now,' he asked, 'about your plan; is it following the emu's feather?'

Merton nodded. 'But I must do it alone. The detectives must stay here. Now if I leave, dressed as I am, by the 10.49, I'll be tracked all the way. Is there anybody in the country whom you can absolutely trust?'

'Yes, there's Bower, the gardener, the son of these two feudal survivals, and there is his son.'

'What is young Bower?'

'A miner in the collieries; the mine is near the house.'

'Is he about my size? Have you seen him?'

'I saw him last night; he was one of the watchers.'

'Is he near my size?'

'A trifle broader, otherwise near enough.'

'What luck!' said Merton, adding, 'well, I can't start by the 10.49. I'm ill. I'm in bed. Order my breakfast in bed, send Mrs. Bower, and come up with her yourself.'

Merton rushed up the turnpike stair; in two minutes he was undressed, and between the sheets. There he lay, reading Bradshaw, pages 670, 671.

Presently there was a knock at the door, and Logan entered, followed by Mrs. Bower with the breakfast tray.

Merton addressed her at once.

'Mrs. Bower, we know that we can trust you absolutely.'

'To the death, sir—me and mine.'

'Well, I am not ill, but people must think I am ill. Is your grandson on the night shift or the day shift?'

'Laird is on the day shift, sir.'

'When does he leave his work?'

'About six, sir.'

'That is good. As soon as he appears—'

'I'll wait for him at the pit's mouth, sir.'

'Thank you. You will take him to his house; he lives with your son?'

'Yes, sir, with his father.'

'Make him change his working clothes—but he need not wash his face much—and bring him here. Mr. Logan, I mean Lord Fastcastle, will want him. Now, Mrs. Bower—you see I trust you absolutely—what he is wanted for is this. I shall dress in your grandson's clothes, I shall blacken my hands and face slightly, and I must get to Drem. Have I time to reach the station by ten minutes past seven?'

'By fast walking, sir.'

'Mr. Logan and your grandson—your grandson in my clothes—will walk later to your son's house, as they find a chance, unobserved, say about eleven at night. They will stay there for some time. Then they will be joined by some of the police, who will accompany Mr. Logan home again. Your grandson will go to his work as usual in the morning. That is all. You quite understand? You have nothing to do but to bring your grandson here, dressed as I said, as soon as he leaves his work. Oh, wait a moment! Is your grandson a teetotaller?'

'He's like the other lads, sir.'

'All the better. Does he smoke?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then pray bring me a pipe of his and some of his tobacco. And, ah yes, does he possess such a thing as an old greatcoat?'

'His auld ane's sair worn, sir.'

'Never mind, he had better walk up in it. He has a better one?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I think that is all,' said Merton. 'You understand, Mrs. Bower, that I am going away dressed as your grandson, while your grandson, dressed as myself, returns to his house to-night, and to work to-morrow. But it is not to be known that I have gone away. I am to be supposed ill in bed here for a day or two. You will bring my meals into the room at the usual hours, and Logan—of course you can trust Dr. Douglas?'

'I do.'

'Then he had better be summoned to my sick bed here to-morrow. I may be so ill that he will have to call twice. That will keep up the belief that I am here.'

'Good idea,' said Logan, as the old woman left the room. 'What had I better do now?'

'Oh, send your telegrams—the advertisements—to the London papers. They can go by the trap you ordered for me, that I am too ill to go in. Then you will have to interview the detectives, take them into the laird's chamber, and, if they start my theory about the secret entrance being under the fallen stones, let them work away at removing them. If they don't start it, put them up to it; anything to keep them employed and prevent them from asking questions in the villages.'

'But, Merton, I understand your leaving in disguise; still, why go first to Edinburgh?'

'The trains from your station to town do not fit. You can look.' And Merton threw Bradshaw to Logan, who caught it neatly.

When he had satisfied himself, Logan said, 'The shops will be closed in Edinburgh, it will be after eight when you arrive. How will you manage about getting into decent clothes?'

'I have my idea; but, as soon as you can get rid of the detectives, come back here; I want you to coach me in broad Scots words and pronunciation. I shall concoct imaginary dialogues. I say, this is great fun.'

'Dod, man, aw 'm the lad that'll lairn ye the pronoonciation,' said Logan, and he was going.

'Wait,' said Merton, 'sign me a paper giving me leave to treat about the ransom. And promise that, if I don't reappear by the eleventh, you won't negotiate at all.'

'Not likely I will,' said Logan.

Merton lay in bed inventing imaginary dialogues to be rendered into Scots as occasion served. Presently Logan brought him a little book named Mansie Waugh.

'That is our lingo here,' he said; and Merton studied the work carefully, marking some phrases with a pencil.

In about an hour Logan reported that the detectives were at work in the secret passage. The lesson in the Scots of the Lothians began, accompanied by sounds of muffled laughter. Not for two or three centuries can the turret chamber at Kirkburn have heard so much merriment.

The afternoon passed in this course of instruction. Merton was a fairly good mimic, and Logan felt at last that he could not readily be detected for an Englishman. Six o'clock had scarcely struck when Mrs. Bower's grandson was ushered into the bedroom. The exchange of clothes took place, Merton dressing as the young Bower undressed. The detectives, who had found nothing, were being entertained by Mrs. Bower at dinner.

'I know how the trap in the secret passage is worked,' said Merton, 'but you keep them hunting for it.'

Had the worthy detectives been within earshot the yells of laughter echoing in the turret as the men dressed must have suggested strange theories to their imaginations.

'Larks!' said Merton, as he blackened his face with coal dust.

Dismissing young Bower, who was told to wait in the hall, Merton made his final arrangements. 'You will communicate with me under cover to Trevor,' he said. He took a curious mediaeval ring that he always wore from his ringer, and tied it to a piece of string, which he hung round his neck, tucking all under his shirt. Then he arranged his thick comforter so as to hide the back of his head and neck (he had bitten his nails and blackened them with coal).

'Logan, I only want a bottle of whisky, the cork drawn and loose in the bottle, and a few dirty Scotch one pound notes; and, oh! has Mrs. Bower a pack of cards?'

Having been supplied with these properties, and said farewell to Logan, Merton stole downstairs, walked round the house, entered the kitchen by the back door, and said to Mrs. Bower, 'Grannie, I maun be ganging.'

'My grandson, gentlemen,' said Mrs. Bower to the detectives. Then to her grandson, she remarked, 'Hae, there's a jeely piece for you'; and Merton, munching a round of bread covered with jam, walked down the steep avenue. He knew the house he was to enter, the gardener's lodge, and also that he was to approach it by the back way, and go in at the back door. The inmates expected him and understood the scheme; presently he went out by the door into the village street, still munching at his round of bread.

To such lads and lassies as hailed him in the waning light he replied gruffly, explaining that he had 'a sair hoast,' that is, a bad cough, from which he had observed that young Bower was suffering. He was soon outside of the village, and walking at top speed towards the station. Several times he paused, in shadowy corners of the hedges, and listened. There was no sound of pursuing feet. He was not being followed, but, of course, he might be dogged at the station. The enemy would have their spies there: if they had them in the village his disguise had deceived them. He ran, whenever no passer-by was in sight; through the villages he walked, whistling 'Wull ye no come back again!' He reached the station with three minutes to spare, took a third-class ticket, and went on to the platform. Several people were waiting, among them four or five rough-looking miners, probably spies. He strolled towards the end of the platform, and when the train entered, leaped into a third-class carriage which was nearly full. Turning at the door, he saw the rough customers making for the same carriage. 'Come on,' cried Merton, with a slight touch of intoxication in his voice; 'come on billies, a' freens here!' and he cast a glance of affection behind him at the other occupants of the carriage. The roughs pressed in.

'I won't have it,' cried a testy old gentleman, who was economically travelling by third-class, 'there are only three seats vacant. The rest of the train is nearly empty. Hi, guard! station-master, hi!'

'A' freens here,' repeated Merton stolidly, taking his whisky bottle from his greatcoat pocket. Two of the roughs had entered, but the guard persuaded the other two that they must bestow themselves elsewhere. The old gentleman glared at Merton, who was standing up, the cork of the bottle between his teeth, as the train began to move. He staggered and fell back into his seat.

'We are na fou, we're no that fou,'

Merton chanted, directing his speech to the old gentleman,

'But just a wee drap in oor 'ee!'

'The curse of Scotland,' muttered the old gentleman, whether with reference to alcohol or to Robert Burns, is uncertain.

'The Curse o' Scotland,' said Merton, 'that's the nine o' diamonds. I hae the cairts on me, maybe ye'd take a hand, sir, at Beggar ma Neebour, or Catch the Ten? Ye needna be feared, a can pay gin I lose.' He dragged out his cards, and a handful of silver.

The rough customers between whom Merton was sitting began to laugh hoarsely. The old gentleman frowned.

'I shall change my carriage at the next station,' he said, 'and I shall report you for gambling.'

'A' freens!' said Merton, as if horrified by the austere reception of his cordial advances. 'Wha's gaumlin'? We mauna play, billies, till he's gane. An unco pernicketty auld carl, thon ane,' he remarked, sotto voce. 'But there's naething in the Company's by-laws again refraishments,' Merton added. He uncorked his bottle, made a pretence of sucking at it, and passed it to his neighbours, the rough customers. They imbibed with freedom.

The carriage was very dark, the lamp 'moved like a moon in a wane,' as Merton might have quoted in happier circumstances. The rough customers glared at him, but his cap had a peak, and he wore his comforter high.

'Man, ye're the kind o' lad I like,' said one of the rough customers.

'A' freens!' said Merton, again applying himself to the bottle, and passing it. 'Ony ither gentleman tak' a sook?' asked Merton, including all the passengers in his hospitable glance. 'Nane o' ye dry?

'Oh! fill yer ain glass, And let the jug pass, Hoo d'ye ken but yer neighbour's dry?'

Merton carolled.

'Thon's no a Scotch lilt,' remarked one of the roughs.

'A ken it's Irish,' said Merton. 'But, billie, the whusky's Scotch!'

The train slowed and the old gentleman got out. From the platform he stormed at Merton.

'Ye're no an awakened character, ma freend,' answered Merton. 'Gude nicht to ye! Gie ma love to the gude wife and the weans!'

The train pursued her course.

'Aw 'm saying, billie, aw 'm saying,' remarked one of the roughs, thrusting his dirty beard into Merton's face.

'Weel, be saying,' said Merton.

'You're no Lairdie Bower, ye ken, ye haena the neb o' him.'

'And wha the deil said a was Lairdie Bower? Aw 'm a Lanerick man. Lairdie's at hame wi' a sair hoast,' answered Merton.

'But ye're wearing Lairdie Bower's auld big coat.'

'And what for no? Lairdie has anither coat, a brawer yin, and he lent me the auld yin because the nichts is cauld, and I hae a hoast ma'sel! Div ye ken Lairdie Bower? I've been wi' his auld faither and the lasses half the day, but speakin's awfu' dry work.'

Here Merton repeated the bottle trick, and showed symptoms of going to sleep, his head rolling on to the shoulder of the rough.

'Haud up, man!' said the rough, withdrawing the support.

'A' freens here,' remarked Merton, drawing a dirty clay pipe from his pocket. 'Hae ye a spunk?'

The rough provided him with a match, and he killed some time, while Preston Pans was passed, in filling and lighting his pipe.

'Ye're a Lanerick man?' asked the inquiring rough.

'Ay, a Hamilton frae Moss End. But I'm taking the play. Ma auld tittie has dee'd and left me some siller,' Merton dragged a handful of dirty notes out of his trousers pocket. 'I've been to see the auld Bowers, but Lairdie was on the shift.'

'And ye're ganging to Embro?'

'When we cam' into Embro Toon We were a seemly sicht to see; Ma luve was in the—

I dinna mind what ma luve was in—

'And I ma'sel in cramoisie,'

sang Merton, who had the greatest fear of being asked local questions about Moss End and Motherwell. 'I dinna ken what cramoisie is, ma'sel',' he added. 'Hae a drink!'

'Man, ye're a bonny singer,' said the rough, who, hitherto, had taken no hand in the conversation.

'Ma faither was a precentor,' said Merton, and so, in fact, Mr. Merton pere had, for a short time, been—of Salisbury Cathedral.

They were approaching Portobello, where Merton rushed to the window, thrust half of his body out and indulged in the raucous and meaningless yells of the festive artisan. Thus he tided over a rather prolonged wait, but, when the train moved on, the inquiring rough returned to the charge. He was suspicious, and also was drunk, and obstinate with all the brainless obstinacy of intoxication.

'Aw 'm sayin',' he remarked to Merton, 'you're no Lairdie Bower.'

'Hear till the man! Aw 'm Tammy Hamilton, o' Moss End in Lanerick. Aw 'm ganging to see ma Jean.

'For day or night Ma fancy's flight Is ever wi' ma Jean— Ma bonny, bonny, flat-footed Jean,'

sang Merton, gliding from the strains of Robert Burns into those of Mr. Boothby. 'Jean's a Lanerick wumman,' he added, 'she's in service in the Pleasance. Aw 'm ganging to my Jo. Ye'll a' hae Jos, billies?'

'Aw 'm sayin',' the intoxicated rough persisted, 'ye're no a Lanerick man. Ye're the English gentleman birkie that cam' to Kirkburn yestreen. Or else ye're ane o' the polis' (police).

'Me ane o' the polis! Aw 'm askin' the company, div a look like a polisman? Div a look like an English birkie, or ane o' the gentry?'

The other passengers, decent people, thus appealed to, murmured negatives, and shook their heads. Merton certainly did not resemble a policeman, an Englishman, or a gentleman.

'Ye see naebody lippens to ye,' Merton went on. 'Man, if we were na a' freens, a wad gie ye a jaud atween yer twa een! But ye've been drinking. Tak anither sook!'

The rough did not reject the conciliatory offer.

'The whiskey's low,' said Merton, holding up the bottle to the light, 'but there's mair at Embro' station.'

They were now drawing up at the station. Merton floundered out, threw his arms round the necks of each of the roughs, yelled to their companions in the next carriage to follow, and staggered into the third- class refreshment room. Here he leaned against the counter and feebly ogled the attendant nymph.

'Ma lonny bassie, a mean ma bonny lassie,' he said, 'gie's five gills, five o' the Auld Kirk' (whisky).

'Hoots man!' he heard one of the roughs remark to another. 'This falla's no the English birkie. English he canna be.'

'But aiblins he's ane o' oor ain polis,' said the man of suspicions.

'Nane o' oor polis has the gumption; and him as fou as a fiddler.'

Merton, waving his glass, swallowed its contents at three gulps. He then fell on the floor, scrambled to his feet, tumbled out, and dashed his own whisky bottle through the window of the refreshment room.

'Me ane o' the polis!' he yelled, and was staggering towards the exit, when he was collared by two policemen, attracted by the noise. He embraced one of them, murmuring 'ma bonny Jean!' and then doubled up, his head lolling on his shoulder. His legs and arms jerked convulsively, and he had at last to be carried off, in the manner known as 'The Frog's March,' by four members of the force. The roughs followed, like chief mourners, Merton thought, at the head of the attendant crowd.

'There's an end o' your clash about the English gentleman,' Merton heard the quieter of his late companions observe to the obstinate inquirer. 'But he's a bonny singer. And noo, wull ye tell me hoo we're to win back to Drem the nicht?'

'Dod, we'll make a nicht o't,' said the other, as Merton was carried into the police-station.

He permitted himself to be lifted into one of the cells, and then remarked, in the most silvery tones:

'Very many thanks, my good men. I need not give you any more trouble, except by asking you, if possible, to get me some hot water and soap, and to invite the inspector to favour me with his company.'

The men nearly dropped Merton, but, finding his feet, he stood up and smiled blandly.

'Pray make no apologies,' he said. 'It is rather I who ought to apologise.'

'He's no drucken, and he's no Scotch,' remarked one of the policemen.

'But he'll pass the nicht here, and maybe apologise to the Baillie in the morning,' said another.

'Oh, pardon me, you mistake me,' said Merton. 'This is not a stupid practical joke.'

'It's no a very gude ane,' said the policeman.

Merton took out a handful of gold. 'I wish to pay for the broken window at once,' he said. 'It was a necessary part of the mise en scene, of the stage effect, you know. To call your attention.'

'Ye'll settle wi' the Baillie in the morning,' said the policeman.

Things were looking untoward.

'Look here,' said Merton, 'I quite understand your point of view, it does credit to your intelligence. You take me for an English tourist, behaving as I have done by way of a joke, or for a bet?'

'That's it, sir,' said the spokesman.

'Well, it does look like that. But which of you is the senior officer here?'

'Me, sir,' said the last speaker.

'Very well, if you can be so kind as to call the officer in charge of the station, or even one of senior standing—the higher the better—I can satisfy him as to my identity, and as to my reasons for behaving as I have done. I assure you that it is a matter of the very gravest importance. If the inspector, when he has seen me, permits, I have no objections to you, or to all of you hearing what I have to say. But you will understand that this is a matter for his own discretion. If I were merely playing the fool, you must see that I have nothing to gain by giving additional annoyance and offence.'

'Very well, sir, I will bring the officer in charge,' said the policeman.

'Just tell him about my arrest and so on,' said Merton.

In a few minutes he returned with his superior.

'Well, my man, what's a' this aboot?' said that officer sternly.

'If you can give me an interview, alone, for five minutes, I shall enlighten you,' said Merton.

The officer was a huge and stalwart man. He threw his eye over Merton. 'Wait in the yaird,' he said to his minions, who retreated rather reluctantly. 'Weel, speak up,' said the officer.

'It is the body snatching case at Kirkburn,' said Merton.

'Do ye mean that ye're an English detective?'

'No, merely a friend of Mr. Logan's who left Kirkburn this evening. I have business to do for him in London in connection with the case—business that nobody can do but myself—and the house was watched. I escaped in the disguise which you see me wearing, and had to throw off a gang of ruffians that accompanied me in the train by pretending to be drunk. I could only shake them off and destroy the suspicions which they expressed by getting arrested.'

'It's a queer story,' said the policeman.

'It is a queer story, but, speaking without knowledge, I think your best plan is to summon the chief of your detective department, I need his assistance. And I can prove my identity to him—to you, if you like, but you know best what is official etiquette.'

'I'll telephone for him, sir.'

'You are very obliging. All this is confidential, you know. Expense is no object to Mr. Logan, and he will not be ungrateful if strict secrecy is preserved. But, of all things, I want a wash.'

'All right, sir,' said the policeman, and in a few minutes Merton's head, hands, and neck, were restored to their pristine propriety.

'No more kailyard talk for me,' he thought, with satisfaction.

The head of the detective department arrived in no long time. He was in evening dress. Merton rose and bowed.

'What's your story, sir?' the chief asked; 'it has brought me from a dinner party at my own house.'

'I deeply regret it,' said Merton, 'though, for my purpose, it is the merest providence.'

'What do you mean, sir?'

'Your subordinate has doubtless told you all that I told him?'

The chief nodded.

'Do you—I mean as an official—believe me?'

'I would be glad of proof of your personal identity.'

'That is easily given. You may know Mr. Lumley, the Professor of Toxicology in the University here?'

'I have met him often on matters of our business.'

'He is an old college friend of mine, and can remove any doubts you may entertain. His wife is a tall woman luckily,' added Merton to himself, much to the chief's bewilderment.

'Mr. Lumley's word would quite satisfy me,' said the chief.

'Very well, pray lend me your attention. This affair—'

'The body snatching at Kirkburn?' asked the chief.

'Exactly,' said Merton. 'This affair is very well organised. Your house is probably being observed. Now what I propose is this. I can go nowhere dressed as I am. You will, if you please, first send a constable, in uniform, to your house with orders to wait till you return. Next, I shall dress, by your permission, in any spare uniform you may have here and in that costume I shall leave this office and accompany you to your house in a closed cab. You will enter it, bring out a hat and cloak, come into the cab, and I shall put them on, leaving my policeman's helmet in the cab, which will wait. Then, minutes later, the constable will come out, take the cab, and drive to any police office you please. Once within your house, I shall exchange my uniform for any old evening suit you may be able to lend me, and, when your guests have departed, you and I will drive together to Professor Lumley's, where he will identify me. After that, my course is perfectly clear, and I need give you no further trouble.'

'It is too complicated, sir,' said the chief, smiling. 'I don't know your name?'

'Merton,' said our hero, 'and yours?'

'Macnab. I can lend you a plain suit of morning clothes from here, and we don't want the stratagem of the constable. You don't even need the extra trouble of putting on evening dress in my house.'

'How very fortunate,' said Merton, and in a quarter of an hour he was attired as a simple citizen, and was driving to the house of Mr. Macnab. Here he was merely introduced to the guests—it was a men's party—as a gentleman from England on business. The guests had too much tact to tarry long, and by eleven o'clock the chief and Merton were ringing at the door bell of Professor Lumley. The servant knew both of them, and ushered them into the professor's study. He was reading examination papers. Mrs. Lumley had not returned from a party. Lumley greeted Merton warmly.

'I am passing through Edinburgh, and thought I might find you at home,' Merton said.

'Mr. Macnab,' said Lumley, shaking hands with the chief, 'you have not taken my friend into custody?'

'No, professor; Mr. Merton will tell you that he is released, and I'll be going home.'

'You won't stop and smoke?'

'No, I should be de trop,' answered the chief; 'good night, professor; good night, Mr. Merton.'

'But the broken window?'

'Oh, we'll settle that, and let you have the bill.'

Merton gave his club address, and the chief shook hands and departed.

'Now, what have you been doing, Merton?' asked Lumley.

Merton briefly explained the whole set of circumstances, and added, 'Now, Lumley, you are my sole hope. You can give me a bed to-night?'

'With all the pleasure in the world.'

'And lend me a set of Mrs. Lumley's raiment and a lady's portmanteau?'

'Are you quite mad?'

'No, but I must get to London undiscovered, and, for certain reasons, with which I need not trouble you, that is absolutely the only possible way. You remember, at Oxford, I made up fairly well for female parts.'

'Is there absolutely no other way?'

'None, I have tried every conceivable plan, mentally. Mourning is best, and a veil.'

At this moment Mrs. Lumley's cab was heard, returning from her party.

'Run down and break it to Mrs. Lumley,' said Merton. 'Luckily we have often acted together.'

'Luckily you are a favourite of hers,' said Lumley.

In ten minutes the pair entered the study. Mrs. Lumley, a tall lady, as Merton had said, came in, laughing and blushing.

'I shall drive with you myself to the train. My maid must be in the secret,' she said.

'She is an old acquaintance of mine,' said Merton. 'But I think you had better not come with me to the station. Nobody is likely to see me, leaving your house about nine, with my veil down. But, if any one does see me, he must take me for you.'

'Oh, it is I who am running up to town incognita?'

'For a day or two—you will lend me a portmanteau to give local colour?'

'With pleasure,' said Mrs. Lumley.

'And Lumley will telegraph to Trevor to meet you at King's Cross, with his brougham, at 6.15 P. M.?'

This also was agreed to, and so ended this romance of Bradshaw.



IV. Greek meets Greek

At about twenty-five minutes to seven, on March 7, the express entered King's Cross. A lady of fashionable appearance, with her veil down, gazed anxiously out of the window of a reserved carriage. She presently detected the person for whom she was looking, and waved her parasol. Trevor, lifting his hat, approached; the lady had withdrawn into the carriage, and he entered.

'Mum's the word!' said the lady.

'Why, it's—hang it all, it's Merton!'

'Your sister is staying with you?' asked Merton eagerly.

'Yes; but what on earth—'

'I'll tell you in the brougham. But you take a weight off my bosom! I am going to stay with you for a day or two; and now my reputation (or Mrs. Lumley's) is safe. Your servants never saw Mrs. Lumley?'

'Never,' said Trevor.

'All right! My portmanteau has her initials, S. M. L., and a crimson ticket; send a porter for it. Now take me to the brougham.'

Trevor offered his arm and carried the dressing-bag; the lady was led to his carriage. The portmanteau was recovered, and they drove away.

'Give me a cigarette,' said Merton, 'and I'll tell you all about it.'

He told Trevor all about it—except about the emu's feathers.

'But a male disguise would have done as well,' said Trevor

'Not a bit. It would not have suited what I have to do in town. I cannot tell you why. The affair is complex. I have to settle it, if I can, so that neither Logan nor any one else—except the body-snatcher and polite letter-writer—shall ever know how I managed it.'

Trevor had to be content with this reply. He took Merton, when they arrived, into the smoking-room, rang for tea, and 'squared his sister,' as he said, in the drawing-room. The pair were dining out, and after a solitary dinner, Merton (in a tea-gown) occupied himself with literary composition. He put his work in a large envelope, sealed it, marked it with a St. Andrew's cross, and, when Trevor returned, asked him to put it in his safe. 'Two days after to-morrow, if I do not appear, you must open the envelope and read the contents,' he said.

After luncheon on the following day—a wet day—Miss Trevor and Merton (who was still arrayed as Mrs. Lumley) went out shopping. Miss Trevor then drove off to pay a visit (Merton could not let her know his next move), and he himself, his veil down, took a four-wheeled cab, and drove to Madame Claudine's. He made one or two purchases, and then asked for the head of the establishment, an Irish lady. To her he confided that he had to break a piece of distressing family news to Miss Markham, of the cloak department; that young lady was summoned; Madame Claudine, with a face of sympathy, ushered them into her private room, and went off to see a customer. Miss Markham was pale and trembling; Merton himself felt agitated.

'Is it about my father, or—' the girl asked.

'Pray be calm,' said Merton. 'Sit down. Both are well.'

The girl started. 'Your voice—' she said.

'Exactly,' said Merton; 'you know me.' And taking off his glove, he showed a curious mediaeval ring, familiar to his friends. 'I could get at you in no other way than this,' he said, 'and it was absolutely necessary to see you.'

'What is it? I know it is about my father,' said the girl.

'He has done us a great service,' said Merton soothingly. He had guessed what the 'distressing circumstances' were in which the marquis had been restored to life. Perhaps the reader guesses? A discreet person, who has secretly to take charge of a corpse of pecuniary value, adopts certain measures (discovered by the genius of ancient Egypt), for its preservation. These measures, doubtless, had revived the marquis, who thus owed his life to his kidnapper.

'He has, I think, done us a great service,' Merton repeated; and the girl's colour returned to her beautiful face, that had been of marble.

'Yet there are untoward circumstances,' Merton admitted. 'I wish to ask you two or three questions. I must give you my word of honour that I have no intention of injuring your father. The reverse; I am really acting in his interests. Now, first, he has practised in Australia. May I ask if he was interested in the Aborigines?'

'Yes, very much,' said the girl, entirely puzzled. 'But,' she added, 'he was never in the Labour trade.'

'Blackbird catching?' said Merton. 'No. But he had, perhaps, a collection of native arms and implements?'

'Yes; a very fine one.'

'Among them were, perhaps, some curious native shoes, made of emu's feathers—they are called Interlinia or, by white men, Kurdaitcha shoes?'

'I don't remember the name,' said Miss Markham, 'but he had quite a number of them. The natives wear them to conceal their tracks when they go on a revenge party.'

Merton's guess was now a certainty. The marquis had spoken of Miss Markham's father as a 'landlouping' Australian doctor. The footmarks of the feathered shoes in the snow at Kirkburn proved that an article which only an Australian (or an anthropologist) was likely to know of had been used by the body-snatchers.

Merton reflected. Should he ask the girl whether she had told her father what, on the night of the marquis's appearance at the office, Logan had told her? He decided that this was superfluous; of course she had told her father, and the doctor had taken his measures (and the body of the marquis) accordingly. To ask a question would only be to enlighten the girl.

'That is very interesting,' said Merton. 'Now, I won't pretend that I disguised myself in this way merely to ask you about Australian curiosities. The truth is that, in your father's interests, I must have an interview with him.'

'You don't mean to do him any harm?' asked the girl anxiously.

'I have given you my word of honour. As things stand, I do not conceal from you that I am the only person who can save him from a situation which might be disagreeable, and that is what I want to do.'

'He will be quite safe if he sees you?' asked the girl, wringing her hands.

'That is the only way in which he can be safe, I am afraid.'

'You would not use a girl against her own father?'

'I would sooner die where I sit,' said Merton earnestly. 'Surely you can trust a friend of Mr. Logan's—who, by the bye, is very well.'

'Oh, oh,' cried the girl, 'I read that story of the stolen corpse in the papers. I understand!'

'It was almost inevitable that you should understand,' said Merton.

'But then,' said the girl, 'what did you mean by saying that my father has done you a great service. You are deceiving me. I have said too much. This is base!' Miss Markham rose, her eyes and cheeks burning.

'What I told you is the absolute and entire truth,' said Merton, nearly as red as she was.

'Then,' exclaimed Miss Markham, 'this is baser yet! You must mean that by doing what you think he has done my father has somehow enabled Robert—Mr. Logan—to come into the marquis's property. Perhaps the marquis left no will, or the will—is gone! And do you believe that Mr. Logan will thank you for acting in this way?' She stood erect, her hand resting on the back of a chair, indignant and defiant.

'In the first place, I have a written power from Mr. Logan to act as I think best. Next, I have not even informed myself as to how the law of Scotland stands in regard to the estate of a man who dies leaving no will. Lastly, Miss Markham, I am extremely hampered by the fact that Mr. Logan has not the remotest suspicion of what I suspected—and now know—to be the truth as to the disappearance of his cousin's body. I successfully concealed my idea from Mr. Logan, so as to avoid giving pain to him and you. I did my best to conceal it from you, though I never expected to succeed. And now, if you wish to know how your father has conferred a benefit on Mr. Logan, I must tell you, though I would rather be silent. Mr. Logan is aware of the benefit, but will never, if you can trust yourself, suspect his benefactor.'

'I can never, never see him again,' the girl sobbed.

'Time is flying,' said Merton, who was familiar, in works of fiction, with the situation indicated by the girl. 'Can you trust me, or not?' he asked, 'My single object is secrecy and your father's safety. I owe that to my friend, to you, and even, as it happens, to your father. Can you enable me, dressed as I am, to have an interview with him?'

'You will not hurt him? You will not give him up? You will not bring the police on him?'

'I am acting as I do precisely for the purpose of keeping the police off him. They have discovered nothing.'

The girl gave a sigh of relief.

'Your father's only danger would lie in my—failure to return from my interview with him. Against that I cannot safeguard him; it is fair to tell you so. But my success in persuading him to adopt a certain course would be equally satisfactory to Mr. Logan and to himself.'

'Mr. Logan knows nothing?'

'Absolutely nothing. I alone, and now you, know anything.'

The girl walked up and down in agony.

'Nobody will ever know if I do not tell you how to find him,' she said.

'Unhappily that is not the case. I only ask you, so that it may not be necessary to take other steps, tardy, but certain, and highly undesirable.'

'You will not go to him armed?'

'I give you my word of honour,' said Merton. 'I have risked myself unarmed already.'

The girl paused with fixed eyes that saw nothing. Merton watched her. Then she took her resolve.

'I do not know where he is living. I know that on Wednesdays, that is, the day after to-morrow, he is to be found at Dr. Fogarty's, a private asylum, a house with a garden, in Water Lane, Hammersmith.'

It was the lane in which stood the Home for Destitute and Decayed Cats, whither Logan had once abducted Rangoon, the Siamese puss.

'Thank you,' said Merton simply. 'And I am to ask for?'

'Ask first for Dr. Fogarty. You will tell him that you wish to see the Ertwa Oknurcha.'

'Ah, Australian for "The Big Man,"' said Merton.

'I don't know what it means,' said Miss Markham. 'Dr. Fogarty will then ask, "Have you the churinga?"'

The girl drew out a slim gold chain which hung round her neck and under her dress. At the end of it was a dark piece of wood, shaped much like a large cigar, and decorated with incised concentric circles, stained red.

'Take that and show it to Dr. Fogarty,' said Miss Markham, detaching the object from the chain.

Merton returned it to her. 'I know where to get a similar churinga,' he said. 'Keep your own. Its absence, if asked for, might lead to awkward questions.'

'Thank you, I can trust you,' said Miss Markham, adding, 'You will address my father as Dr. Melville.'

'Again thanks, and good-bye,' said Merton. He bowed and withdrew.

'She is a good deal upset, poor girl,' Merton remarked to Madame Claudine, who, on going to comfort Miss Markham with tea, found her weeping. Merton took another cab, and drove to Trevor's house.

After dinner (at which there were no guests), and in the smoking-room, Trevor asked whether he had made any progress.

'Everything succeeded to a wish,' said Merton. 'You remember Water Lane?'

'Where Logan carried the Siamese cat in my cab,' said Trevor, grinning at the reminiscence. 'Rather! I reconnoitred the place with Logan.'

'Well, on the day after to-morrow I have business there.'

'Not at the Cats' Home?'

'No, but perhaps you might reconnoitre again. Do you remember a house with high walls and spikes on them?'

'I do,' said Trevor; 'but how do you know? You never were there. You disapproved of Logan's method in the case of the cat.'

'I never was there; I only made a guess, because the house I am interested in is a private asylum.'

'Well, you guessed right. What then?'

'You might reconnoitre the ground to-morrow—the exits, there are sure to be some towards waste land or market gardens.'

'Jolly!' said Trevor. 'I'll make up as a wanderer from Suffolk, looking for a friend in the slums; semi-bargee kind of costume.'

'That would do,' said Merton. 'But you had better go in the early morning.'

'A nuisance. Why?'

'Because, later, you will have to get a gang of fellows to be about the house the day after, when I pay my visit.'

'Fellows of our own sort, or the police?'

'Neither. I thought of fellows of our own sort. They would talk and guess.'

'Better get some of Ned Mahony's gang?' asked Trevor.

Mr. Mahony was an ex-pugilist, and a distinguished instructor in the art of self-defence. He also was captain of a gang of 'chuckers out.'

'Yes,' said Merton, 'that is my idea. They will guess, too; but when they know the place is a private lunatic asylum their hypothesis is obvious.'

'They'll think that a patient is to be rescued?'

'That will be their idea. And the old trick is a good trick. Cart of coals blocked in the gateway, or with another cart—the bigger the better—in the lane. The men will dress accordingly. Others will have stolen to the back and sides of the house; you will, in short, stop the earths after I enter. Your brougham, after setting me down, will wait in Hammersmith Road, or whatever the road outside is.'

'I may come?' asked Trevor.

'In command, as a coal carter.'

'Hooray!' said Trevor, 'and I'll tell you what, I won't reconnoitre as a bargee, but as a servant out of livery sent to look for a cat at the Home. And I'll mistake the asylum for the Home for Cats, and try to scout a little inside the gates.'

'Capital,' said Merton. 'Then, later, I want you to go to a curiosity shop near the Museum' (he mentioned the street), 'and look into the window. You'll see a little brown piece of wood like this.' Merton sketched rapidly the piece of wood which Miss Markham wore under her dress. 'The man has several. Buy one about the size of a big cigar for me, and buy one or two other trifles first.'

'The man knows me,' said Trevor, 'I have bought things from him.'

'Very good, but don't buy it when any other customer is in the shop. And, by the way, take Mrs. Lumley's portmanteau—the lock needs mending—to Jones's in Sloane Street to be repaired. One thing more, I should like to add a few lines to that manuscript I gave you to keep in your safe.'

Trevor brought the sealed envelope. Merton added a paragraph and resealed it. Trevor locked it up again.

On the following day Trevor started early, did his scouting in Water Lane, and settled with Mr. Mahony about his gang of muscular young prize- fighters. He also brought the native Australian curiosity, and sent Mrs. Lumley's portmanteau to have the lock repaired.

Merton determined to call at Dr. Fogarty's asylum at four in the afternoon. The gang, under Trevor, was to arrive half an hour later, and to surround and enter the premises if Merton did not emerge within half an hour.

At four o'clock exactly Trevor's brougham was at the gates of the asylum. The footman rang the bell, a porter opened a wicket, and admitted a lady of fashionable aspect, who asked for Dr. Fogarty. She was ushered into his study, her card ('Louise, 13 —- Street') was taken by the servant, and Dr. Fogarty appeared. He was a fair, undecided looking man, with blue wandering eyes, and long untidy, reddish whiskers. He bowed and looked uncomfortable, as well he might.

'I have called to see the Ertwa Oknurcha, Dr. Fogarty,' said Merton.

'Oh Lord,' said Dr. Fogarty, and murmured, 'Another of his lady friends!' adding, 'I must ask, Miss, have you the churinga?'

Merton produced, out of his muff, the Australian specimen which Trevor had bought.

The doctor inspected it. 'I shall take it to the Ertwa Oknurcha,' he said, and shambled out. Presently he returned. 'He will see you, Miss.'

Merton found the redoubtable Dr. Markham, an elderly man, clean shaven, prompt-looking, with very keen dark eyes, sitting at a writing table, with a few instruments of his profession lying about. The table stood on an oblong space of uncarpeted and polished flooring of some extent. Dr. Fogarty withdrew, the other doctor motioned Merton to a chair on the opposite side of the table. This chair was also on the uncarpeted space, and Merton observed four small brass plates in the parquet. Arranging his draperies, and laying aside his muff, Merton sat down, slightly shifting the position of the chair.

'Perhaps, Dr. Melville,' he said, 'it will be more reassuring to you if I at once hold my hands up,' and he sat there and smiled, holding up his neatly gloved hands.

The doctor stared, and his hand stole towards an instrument like an unusually long stethoscope, which lay on his table.

Merton sat there 'hands up,' still smiling. 'Ah, the blow-tube?' he said. 'Very good and quiet! Do you use urali? Infinitely better, at close quarters, than the noisy old revolver.'

'I see I have to do with a cool hand, sir,' said the doctor.

'Ah,' said Merton. 'Then let us talk as between man and man.' He tilted his chair backwards, and crossed his legs. 'By the way, as I have no Aaron and Hur to help me to hold up my hands, may I drop them? The attitude, though reassuring, is fatiguing.'

'If you won't mind first allowing me to remove your muff,' said the doctor. It lay on the table in front of Merton.

'By all means, no gun in my muff,' said Merton. 'In fact I think the whole pistol business is overdone, and second rate.'

'I presume that I have the honour to speak to Mr. Merton?' asked the doctor. 'You slipped through the cordon?'

'Yes, I was the intoxicated miner,' said Merton. 'No doubt you have received a report from your agents?'

'Stupid fellows,' said the doctor.

'You are not flattering to me, but let us come to business. How much?'

'I need hardly ask,' said the doctor, 'it would be an insult to your intelligence, whether you have taken the usual precautions?'

Merton, whose chair was tilted, threw himself violently backwards, upsetting his chair, and then scrambled nimbly to his feet. Between him and the table yawned a square black hole of unknown depth.

'Hardly fair, Dr. Melville,' said he, picking up the chair, and placing it on the carpet, 'besides, I have taken the ordinary precautions. The house is surrounded—Ned Mahony's lambs—the usual statement is in the safe of a friend. We must really come to the point. Time is flying,' and he looked at his watch. 'I can give you twenty minutes.'

'Have you anything in the way of terms to propose?' asked the doctor, filling his pipe.

'Well, first, absolute secrecy. I alone know the state of the case.'

'Has Mr. Logan no guess?'

'Not the faintest suspicion. The detectives, when I left Kirkburn, had not even found the trap door, you understand. You hit on its discovery through knowing the priest's hole at Oxburgh Hall, I suppose?'

The doctor nodded.

'You can guarantee absolute secrecy?' he asked.

'Naturally, the knowledge is confined to me, you, and your partners. I want the secrecy in Mr. Logan's interests, and you know why.'

'Well,' said the doctor, 'that is point one. So far I am with you.'

'Then, to enter on odious details,' said Merton, 'had you thought of any terms?'

'The old man was stiff,' said the doctor, 'and your side only offered to double him in your advertisement, you know.'

'That was merely a way of speaking,' said Merton. 'What did the marquis propose?'

'Well, as his offer is not a basis of negotiation?'

'Certainly not,' said Merton.

'Five hundred he offered, out of which we were to pay his fare back to Scotland.'

Both men laughed.

'But you have your own ideas?' said Merton.

'I had thought of 15,000l. and leaving England. He is a multimillionaire, the marquis.'

'It is rather a pull,' said Merton. 'Now speaking as a professional man, and on honour, how is his lordship?' Merton asked.

'Speaking as a professional man, he may live a year; he cannot live eighteen months, I stake my reputation on that.'

Merton mused.

'I'll tell you what we can do,' he said. 'We can guarantee the interest, at a fancy rate, say five per cent, during the marquis's life, which you reckon as good for a year and a half, at most. The lump sum we can pay on his decease.'

The doctor mused in his turn.

'I don't like it. He may alter his will, and then—where do I come in?'

'Of course that is an objection,' said Merton. 'But where do you come in if you refuse? Logan, I can assure you (I have read up the Scots law since I came to town), is the heir if the marquis dies intestate. Suppose that I do not leave this house in a few minutes, Logan won't bargain with you; we settled that; and really you will have taken a great deal of trouble to your own considerable risk. You see the usual document, my statement, is lodged with a friend.'

'There is certainly a good deal in what you say,' remarked the doctor.

'Then, to take a more cheerful view,' said Merton, 'I have medical authority for stating that any will made now, or later, by the marquis, would probably be upset, on the ground of mental unsoundness, you know. So Logan would succeed, in spite of a later will.'

The doctor smiled. 'That point I grant. Well, one must chance something. I accept your proposals. You will give me a written agreement, signed by Mr. Logan, for the arrangement.'

'Yes, I have power to act.'

'Then, Mr. Merton, why in the world did you not let your friend walk in Burlington Arcade, and see the lady? He would have been met with the same terms, and could have proposed the same modifications.'

'Well, Dr. Melville, first, I was afraid that he might accidentally discover the real state of the case, as I surmised that it existed—that might have led to family inconveniences, you know.'

'Yes,' the doctor admitted, 'I have felt that. My poor daughter, a good girl, sir! It wrung my heartstrings, I assure you.'

'I have the warmest sympathy with you,' said Merton, going on. 'Well, in the second place, I was not sure that I could trust Mr. Logan, who has rather a warm temper, to conduct the negotiations. Thirdly, I fear I must confess that I did what I have done—well, "for human pleasure."'

'Ah, you are young,' said the doctor, sighing.

'Now,' said Merton, 'shall I sign a promise? We can call Dr. Fogarty up to witness it. By the bye, what about "value received"? Shall we say that we purchase your ethnological collection?'

The doctor grinned, and assented, the deed was written, signed, and witnessed by Dr. Fogarty, who hastily retreated.

'Now about restoring the marquis,' said Merton. 'He's here, of course; it was easy enough to get him into an asylum. Might I suggest a gag, if by chance you have such a thing about you? To be removed, of course, when once I get him into the house of a friend. And the usual bandage over his eyes: he must never know where he has been.'

'You think of everything, Mr. Merton,' said the doctor. 'But, how are you to account for the marquis's reappearance alive?' he asked.

'Oh that—easily! My first theory, which I fortunately mentioned to his medical attendant, Dr. Douglas, in the train, before I reached Kirkburn, was that he had recovered from catalepsy, and had secretly absconded, for the purpose of watching Mr. Logan's conduct. We shall make him believe that this is the fact, and the old woman who watched him—'

'Plucky old woman,' said the doctor.

'Will swear to anything that he chooses to say.'

'Well, that is your affair,' said the doctor.

'Now,' said Merton, 'give me a receipt for 750l.; we shall tell the marquis that we had to spring 250l. on his original offer.'

The doctor wrote out, stamped, and signed the receipt. 'Perhaps I had better walk in front of you down stairs?' he asked Merton.

'Perhaps it really would be more hospitable,' Merton acquiesced.

Merton was ushered again into Dr. Fogarty's room on the ground floor. Presently the other doctor reappeared, leading a bent and much muffled up figure, who preserved total silence—for excellent reasons. The doctor handed to Merton a sealed envelope, obviously the marquis's will. Merton looked closely into the face of the old marquis, whose eyes, dropping senile tears, showed no sign of recognition.

Dr. Fogarty next adjusted a silken bandage, over a wad of cotton wool, which he placed on the eyes of the prisoner.

Merton then took farewell of Dr. Melville (alias Markham); he and Dr. Fogarty supported the tottering steps of Lord Restalrig, and they led him to the gate.

'Tell the porter to call my brougham,' said Merton to Dr. Fogarty.

The brougham was called and came to the gate, evading a coal-cart which was about to enter the lane. Merton aided the marquis to enter, and said 'Home.' A few rough fellows, who were loitering in the lane, looked curiously on. In half an hour the marquis, his gag and the bandage round his eyes removed, was sitting in Trevor's smoking-room, attended to by Miss Trevor.

It is probably needless to describe the simple and obvious process (rather like that of the Man, the Goose, and the Fox) by which Mrs. Lumley, with her portmanteau, left Trevor's house that evening to pay another visit, while Merton himself arrived, in evening dress, to dinner at a quarter past eight. He had telegraphed to Logan: 'Entirely successful. Come up by the 11.30 to-night, and bring Mrs. Bower.'

The marquis did not appear at dinner. He was in bed, and, thanks to a sleeping potion, slumbered soundly. He awoke about nine in the morning to find Mrs. Bower by his bedside.

'Eh, marquis, finely we have jinked them,' said Mrs. Bower; and she went on to recount the ingenious measures by which the marquis, recovering from his 'dwawm,' had secretly withdrawn himself.

'I mind nothing of it, Jeanie, my woman,' said the marquis. 'I thought I wakened with some deevil running a knife into me; he might have gone further, and I might have fared worse. He asked for money, but, faith, we niffered long and came to no bargain. And a woman brought me away. Who was the woman?'