is is no' the way ye'll mak' me like ye.)

SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry.

SCENE V

_To these, HUNT, C._ (_He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on
the shoulder._)

HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?

SMITH (_pulling himself together_). D--n it, Jerry, what do you mean by
startling an old customer like that?

HUNT. What, my brave 'un? You're the very party I was looking for!

SMITH. There's nothing out against me this time?

HUNT. I'll take odds there is. But it ain't in my hands. (_To OLD
BRODIE._) You'll excuse me, old gentleman?

SMITH. Ah, well, if it's all in the way of friendship!... I say, Jean
(you and me had best be on the toddle). We shall be late for church.

HUNT. Lady, George?

SMITH. It's a----yes, it's a lady. Come along, Jean.

HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe. (That was the name, I think?) Won't Mrs.
Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?

JEAN (_unmuffling_). I've naething to be ashamed of. My name's Mistress
Watt; I'm weel kennt at the Wyndheid; there's naething again' me.

HUNT. No, to be sure there ain't; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear?
You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt, that
might be your born father? (But all this don't tell me about Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal.)

SMITH (_in an agony_). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (_Going with
attempted swagger._) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.

SCENE VI

_To these, C., BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern_)

LAWSON (_from the door_). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.

JEAN. That's the Fiscal himsel'.

HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?

LAWSON. That's me. Who'll you be?

HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.

LAWSON. There's a place for a' things, officer. Come your ways to my
office with me and this guid wife.

BRODIE (_aside to JEAN, as she passes with a curtsey_). How dare you be
here? (_Aloud to SMITH._) Wait you here, my man.

SMITH. If you please, sir. (_BRODIE goes out, C._)

SCENE VII

BRODIE, SMITH

BRODIE. What the devil brings you here?

SMITH. Confound it, Deakin! Not rusty?

BRODIE. (And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?

SMITH. Why, you don't mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by
G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?)

BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator----

SMITH. The Fiscal? He don't count.

BRODIE. What d'ye mean?

SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fis