the table turned to him. Donald seemed about to
cross-question him when Peg Macllrea spoke.

"Is it a bit of the soger's paper you're wantin'? Here's for you."

She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt and drew out a crumpled scrap of
paper.

"I snapped it out of his hand in the kitchen. It was for grabbing it
that he catched me by the hair o' the head. I saw him glowerin' at it as
soon as ever he came intil the light."

Donald Ward took it from her hand and read--

"The house of Felix Matier, an inn at the far end of North Street, to be
known easily by the sign of Dumouriez which hangs before the door. Felix
Matier is + + +."

He passed it without comment to Matier, who read it and laughed.

"They have me marked with three crosses," he said. "I'm dangerous. But
what do they mean by it. How do they come to know so much about me?

"'Ken ye aught of Captain Grose Igo and ago.
Is he amang friends or foes? Iram, coram, dago.'

"Who set the dragoons on you?" said Donald. "That's the question."

"By God, then, it's easily answered," said Matier. "I'll give it to you
in the words of the poet--

"'Letters four do form his name.
He let them loose and cried Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due.'

"P.I.T.T. Does that content you?"

"Pitt," said Donald. "Oh, I see. That's true, no doubt. But I want
some one nearer hand than Pitt. Who gave them this paper? Whose is the
writing on it?"

"I can tell you that," said James Bigger. "I have a note in my pocket
this minute from the man who wrote that. It's a summons to a meeting
for important business at the house of Aeneas Moylin, on the hill of
Donegore, next week."

"Have you?" said Donald.

"Ay, and the man's name is James Finlay."

A dead silence followed the statement. It was Donald who broke it.

"I reckon, friend Bigger, that I'll go with you to that meeting. We'll
take Neal here along, too. He knows the man. There'll be some important
business done that night, though maybe not quite the same as what James
Finlay has planned."

CHAPTER VIII

Neal Ward was awakened next morning by the noise which Peg Macllrea made
sweeping and tidying the room where he slept. He lay for a few minutes
watching the girl. Her red hair was coiled up now in a neat roll at
the back of her head. Her freckled face was clean, and had apparently
escaped bruising in her conflict with the dragoon. She wore a short grey
skirt of woollen homespun. The slee