or three persons who (after passing a
sleepless night) bluntly asked Miss Ailie from whom they came, she only
replied by pursing her lips. Nothing could be learned at the post-office
save that Miss Ailie never posted any letters there, except to two
Misses and a Mrs., all resident in Redlintie. The mysterious letters
came from Australy or Manchester, or some such part.

What could Stroke make of this? He expressed no opinion, but oh, his
face was grim. Orders were immediately given to double the sentinels. A
barrel was placed in the Queen's Bower. Sawdust was introduced at
immense risk into the Lair. A paper containing this writing, "248xho317
Oxh4591AWS314dd5," was passed round and then solemnly burned. Nothing
was left to chance.

Agnes of Kingoldrum (Stroke told her) did not know Miss Ailie, but she
was commanded to pay special attention to the gossip of the town
regarding this new move of the enemy. By next Saturday the plot had
thickened. Previous letters might have reddened Miss Ailie's eyes for an
hour or two, but they gladdened her as a whole. Now she sat crying all
evening with this one on her lap; she gave up her daily walk to the
Berlin wool shop, with all its romantic possibilities; at the clatter of
the tea-things she would start apprehensively; she had let a red shawl
lie for two days in the blue-and-white room.

Stroke never blanched. He called his faithful remnant around him, and
told them the story of Bell the Cat, with its application in the records
of his race. Did they take his meaning? This Miss Ailie must be watched
closely. In short, once more, in Scottish history, someone must bell the
cat. Who would volunteer?

Corp of Corp and Sir Joseph stepped forward as one man.

"Thou couldst not look like Gavinia," the prince said, shaking his head.

"Wha wants him to look like Gavinia?" cried an indignant voice.

"Peace, Agnes!" said Stroke.

"Agnes, why bletherest thou?" said Sir Joseph.

"If onybody's to watch Miss Ailie," insisted the obstinate woman,
"surely it should be me!"

"Ha!" Stroke sprang to his feet, for something in her voice, or the
outline of her figure, or perhaps it was her profile, had given him an
idea. "A torch!" he cried eagerly and with its aid he scanned her face
until his own shone triumphant.

"He kens a wy, methinks!" exclaimed one of his men.

Sir Joseph was right. It had been among the prince's exploits to make
his way into Thrums in disguise, and mix with the pe