w a long breath, like a gasp.

'Let's go down and sit on the rocks,' said Marjorie abruptly. 'Now,
Euan, tell us how you think it happened.'

'Well,' said Euan, 'the only explanation is, that that order came into
Neil's possession without his knowing it.'

Allan nodded.

'You see, Miss Marjorie,' continued Euan, 'Neil made no secret of
having sent off a post-office order that day. He had got one on the
evening before, when he was at the MacAlisters', and he put it in the
pocket of his reefer jacket. You know that new churn he got for his
mother? Well, he was paying for that by instalments and this was one
of the payments. The day after the robbery, he went into the
post-office, got the order, put it into an envelope containing a note
to say that he hoped to send the last instalment next week, and sent it
away. But the order that came out of the letter was not the one that
he bought at Mrs. MacAlister's that night; and the curious thing is,
that he found the order that he believed he had sent away, still in his
coat pocket when he went to look. At least that's the story he tells,
poor lad.'

'Then,' said Allan, 'how do you account for the wrong order being in
the letter?'

Euan pondered a minute, and then said, 'Mr. Allan, there's only one
explanation of it, so far as I can see. Some person must have been
trying to screen himself by throwing suspicion on to Neil. You say
that there was more than one order in the laird's letter?'

'Yes,' replied Allan, 'and they don't seem to have heard anything about
the others yet.'

'They will turn up some day, no doubt, and then the whole matter may be
cleared up; but in the meanwhile there's nothing to go by to help the
poor lad. Perhaps they may be traced before the case comes up in
Edinburgh.

'Oh, I hope so,' cried the girls, 'and then they'll get their finger on
the real culprit?'

'The person who did it must have put the order into Neil's pocket,'
said Allan. 'How could they have managed it and what would make them
think of Neil?'

'Well, Mr. Allan; you know how these country post-offices are kept.
The letter-box is in the MacAlisters' kitchen, which is at the same
time their shop, and where every one goes in and out. The box is never
locked; and after the letters are sorted they often lie on the table
for hours, waiting until the postman comes to take them away. Any one
who was not honest could easily slip into the kitchen when Mrs.
MacAlister's bac