m name was known wherever the English language was read: "W. and R.
Chambers, Publishers."

From top to bottom the place was gas-lit, even on a sunny spring
morning, and it hummed and clattered with printing-presses. No one was
in the little anteroom to the editorial offices beside a young clerk,
but at sight of a red-headed, freckle-faced Heriot laddie of Bobby's
puppyhood days Mr. Traill's spirits rose.

"A gude day to you, Sandy McGregor; and whaur's your auld twin
conspirator, Geordie Ross?"

"He's a student in the Medical College, Mr. Traill. He went by this
meenit to the Botanical Garden for herbs my grandmither has aye known
without books." Sandy grinned in appreciation of this foolishness,
but he added, with Scotch shrewdness, "It's gude for the book-prenting
beesiness."

"It is so," the landlord agreed, heartily. "But you must no' be
forgetting that the Chambers brothers war book readers and sellers
before they war publishers. You are weel set up in life, laddie, and
Heriot's has pulled the warst of the burrs from your tongue. I'm wanting
to see Glenormiston."

"Mr. William Chambers is no' in. Mr. Robert is aye in, but he's no'
liking to be fashed about sma' things."

"I'll no' trouble him. It's the Lord Provost I'm wanting, on ofeecial
beesiness." He requested Sandy to ask Glenormiston, if he came in, to
come over to the Burgh court and spier for Mr. Traill.

"It's no' his day to sit as magistrate, and he's no' like to go unless
it's a fair sairious matter."

"Ay, it is, laddie. It's a matter of life and death, I'm thinking!"
He smiled grimly, as it entered his head that he might be driven to do
violence to that meddling policeman. The yellow gas-light gave his face
such a sardonic aspect that Sandy turned pale.

"Wha's death, man?"

Mr. Traill kept his own counsel, but at the door he turned: "You'll no'
be remembering the bittie terrier that lived in the kirkyard?"

The light of boyhood days broke in Sandy's grin. "Ay, I'll no' be
forgetting the sonsie tyke. He was a deil of a dog to tak' on a holiday.
Is he still faithfu' to his dead master?"

"He is that; and for his faithfu'ness he's like to be dead himsel'. The
police are takin' up masterless dogs an' putting them out o' the way.
I'll mak' a gude fight for Bobby in the Burgh court."

"I'll fight with you, man." The spirit of the McGregor clan, though
much diluted and subdued by town living, brought Sandy down from a
three-legged stool. He