l in the same
small voice, now quivering imperceptibly, "Wad ye obleege me, sir, by
leetin' the lamp? Or, d'ye think, Wullie, 'twad be soilin' his dainty
fingers? They're mair used, I'm told, to danderin' with the bonnie brown
hair o' his--"

"I'll not ha' ye talk o' ma Maggie so," interposed the boy passionately.

"_His_ Maggie, mark ye, Wullie--_his_! I thocht 'twad soon get that
far."

"Tak' care, dad! I'll stan' but little more," the boy warned him in
choking voice; and began to trim the lamp with trembling fingers.

M'Adam forthwith addressed himself to Red Wull.

"I suppose no man iver had sic a son as him, Wullie. Ye ken what I've
done for him, an' ye ken hoo he's repaid it. He's set himsel' agin
me; he's misca'd me; he's robbed me o' ma Cup; last of all, he struck
me--struck me afore them a'. We've toiled for him, you and I, Wullie;
we've slaved to keep him in hoose an' hame, an' he's passed his time,
the while, in riotous leevin', carousin' at Kenmuir, amusin' himself'
wi' his--" He broke off short. The lamp was lit, and the strip of paper,
pinned on to the table, naked and glaring, caught his eye.

"What's this?" he muttered; and unloosed the nail that clamped it down.

This is what he read:

"Adam Mackadam yer warned to mak' an end to yer Red Wull will be best
for him and the Sheep. This is the first yo'll have two more the third
will be the last--"

It was written in pencil, and the only signature was a dagger, rudely
lined in red.

M'Adam read the paper once, twice, thrice. As he slowly assimilated
its meaning, the blood faded from his face. He stared at it and still
stared, with whitening face and pursed lips. Then he stole a glance at
David's broad back.

"What d'ye ken o' this, David?" he asked, at length, in a dry thin
voice, reaching forward in his chair.

"O' what?"

"O' this," holding up the slip. "And ye'el obleege me by the truth for
once."

David turned, took up the paper, read it, and laughed harshly.

"It's coom to this, has it?" he said, still laughing, and yet with
blanching face.

"Ye ken what it means. I daresay ye pit it there; aiblins writ it. Ye'll
explain it." The little man spoke in the same small, even voice, and his
eyes never moved off his son's face.

"I've heard naethin'.... I'd like the truth, David, if ye can tell it."

The boy smiled a forced, unnatural smile, looking from his father to the
paper in his hand.

"Yo' shall have it, but yo'll not like it.