hing to tell you,"
and Dickson recounted his interview with the innkeeper. "I don't think
it's safe for me to bide here, and if I did, I wouldn't be any use,
hiding in cellars and such like, and not daring to stir a foot. I'm
coming with you to the House. Now tell me how to get there."

Dougal agreed to this view. "There's been nothing doing at the Hoose
the day, but they're keepin' a close watch on the policies. The cripus
may come any moment. There's no doubt, Mr. McCunn, that ye're in
danger, for they'll serve you as the tinklers tried to serve us.
Listen to me. Ye'll walk up the station road, and take the second turn
on your left, a wee grass road that'll bring ye to the ford at the
herd's hoose. Cross the Laver--there's a plank bridge--and take
straight across the moor in the direction of the peakit hill they call
Grey Carrick. Ye'll come to a big burn, which ye must follow till ye
get to the shore. Then turn south, keepin' the water's edge till ye
reach the Laver, where you'll find one o' us to show ye the rest of the
road.... I must be off now, and I advise ye not to be slow of startin',
for wi' this rain the water's risin' quick. It's a mercy it's such
coarse weather, for it spoils the veesibility."

"Auntie Phemie," said Dickson a few minutes later, "will you oblige me
by coming for a short walk?"

"The man's daft," was the answer.

"I'm not. I'll explain if you'll listen.... You see," he concluded,
"the dangerous bit for me is just the mile out of the village. They'll
no' be so likely to try violence if there's somebody with me that could
be a witness. Besides, they'll maybe suspect less if they just see a
decent body out for a breath of air with his auntie."

Mrs. Morran said nothing, but retired, and returned presently equipped
for the road. She had indued her feet with goloshes and pinned up her
skirts till they looked like some demented Paris mode. An ancient
bonnet was tied under her chin with strings, and her equipment was
completed by an exceedingly smart tortoise-shell-handled umbrella,
which, she explained, had been a Christmas present from her son.

"I'll convoy ye as far as the Laverfoot herd's," she announced. "The
wife's a freend o' mine and will set me a bit on the road back. Ye
needna fash for me. I'm used to a' weathers."

The rain had declined to a fine drizzle, but a tearing wind from the
south-west scoured the land. Beyond the shelter of the trees the moor
was a battle