suddenly laughed aloud, and then, half chanting the words
in a cracked falsetto, quoted--

"What is right and what is wrang by the law?
What is right and what is wrang?
A short sword and a lang,
A stout arm and a Strang,
For to draw."

"Silence," said Donald.

"It is the man," said Aeneas Moylin, "I hear him putting his horse into
the shed. It must be he, for no stranger would know the ways of the
place."

James Bigger drew a pistol from his pocket, looked carefully at the
priming, cocked it, and laid it on the table before him. He sat at the
end of the table opposite Donald Ward, and was nearest to the door.

The latch was lifted from without, and James Finlay entered the room.

"You are welcome," said Donald, and every man at the table repeated the
words.

Something in the tone of the greeting, some sense of the feeling of
those who sat in the room, startled Finlay. He glanced quickly at the
faces before him, became deadly white, took a step forward, and then
turned to the door. It was shut, and James Bigger, pistol in hand, stood
with his back against it. Finlay stood stock still. Neal, looking at
him, saw in his eyes an expression of wild terror--an agonised appeal
against the horror of death. In a single instant the man had understood
that he was to die. Neal felt suddenly sick. Then a faintness overcame
him. He leaned back in his chair unable to move or speak. He heard, as
if from a great distance, as if out of some other world, his uncle's
voice--

"The men you expected are not here, friend Finlay. M'Cracken is busy
elsewhere, Munro has an engagement this evening, Hope, whom you let slip
through your fingers yesterday, is not here to meet you."

"I wear to you," said Finlay, "that I tried to save Hope yesterday."

Donald took no notice of the words. He went on in a cool, not unfriendly
voice--

"We are here instead, and I think we are quite competent to conduct the
business for which we have met; but you will agree with us that this
house will not be a suitable place for our meeting. We think it possible
that Aeneas Moylin's house may be honoured to-night by a visit from some
dragoons or yeomen. They will probably be here in half an hour or so.
In the meanwhile, we shall adjourn. There is near at hand a building
in which we may do our business with perfect safety. You have heard, no
doubt, of the custom of body-snatching. Certain men--resurrectioners, I
think, they ar