"

"So I see. Whereabouts, may I ask?"

"Mrs. Morran's. We could always have got in there, but we didn't want
to fuss an old lady, so we thought we'd try the inn first. She's my
friend's aunt."

At this amazing falsehood Dickson started, and the man observed his
surprise. The eyes were turned on him like a searchlight. They roused
antagonism in his peaceful soul, and with that antagonism came an
impulse to back up the Poet. "Ay," he said, "she's my auntie Phemie,
my mother's half-sister."

The man turned on Heritage.

"Where are ye for the day?"

"Auchenlochan," said Dickson hastily. He was still determined to shake
the dust of Dalquharter from his feet.

The innkeeper sensibly brightened. "Well, ye'll have a fine walk. I
must go in and see about my own breakfast. Good day to ye, gentlemen."

"That," said Heritage as they entered the village street again, "is the
first step in camouflage, to put the enemy off his guard."

"It was an abominable lie," said Dickson crossly.

"Not at all. It was a necessary and proper ruse de guerre. It
explained why we spent the right here, and now Dobson and his friends
can get about their day's work with an easy mind. Their suspicions are
temporarily allayed, and that will make our job easier."

"I'm not coming with you."

"I never said you were. By 'we' I refer to myself and the red-headed
boy."

"Mistress, you're my auntie," Dickson informed Mrs. Morran as she set
the porridge on the table. "This gentleman has just been telling the
man at the inn that you're my Auntie Phemie."

For a second their hostess looked bewildered. Then the corners of her
prim mouth moved upwards in a slow smile.

"I see," she said. "Weel, maybe it was weel done. But if ye're my
nevoy ye'll hae to keep up my credit, for we're a bauld and siccar lot."

Half an hour later there was a furious dissension when Dickson
attempted to pay for the night's entertainment. Mrs. Morran would have
none of it. "Ye're no' awa' yet," she said tartly, and the matter was
complicated by Heritage's refusal to take part in the debate. He stood
aside and grinned, till Dickson in despair returned his notecase to his
pocket, murmuring darkly the "he would send it from Glasgow."

The road to Auchenlochan left the main village street at right angles
by the side of Mrs. Morran's cottage. It was a better road than that
by which they had come yesterday, for by it twice daily the postcart
travelled to th