The Collected Works of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

William. I was, I confess, in despair lest harm should come to either of them through its loss, but I cannot think that any has. ’Tis now more than three months since it was stolen from me, and by this time the Government has probably learnt, from other sources of their presence in Scotland.”

      Frowning over his own confession, and remembering too at that moment how Alison that day at Fort William had spoken of searches made by the military after the Doctor, he did not see the sharp glance which was cast at him.

      “Ay, ’tis very probable they know it,” said Mr. MacPhair drily. “What part your lost letter may have played in their knowledge . . .” He shrugged his shoulders. “And indeed,” he went on, with an air of disapproval, “I cannot anyways commend this mission of my kinsman Lochdornie’s and Doctor Cameron’s. Had the Prince taken my advice on the matter when he made it known to me—as, considering my large interests and influence in the Western Highlands, he had done well to—they would not have been sent upon so risky an undertaking. However, since it has been set on foot, I hope my cousin Lochdornie will find means to report to me on his proceedings there; which indeed,” added the future Chief, “it is no less than his duty to do. As yet I have had no word from him. It would be well did I hear from the Doctor also. I only trust he may not be engaged in damping down the ardour of the clans, as he did three years ago.”

      “Doctor Cameron damp down the clans!” exclaimed Hector, thinking he had not heard aright. “My dear Mr. MacPhair, he’s more like, surely, to inflame them with too little cause. . . . And how should the Prince have selected him for this mission if that were his habit?”

      Finlay shrugged his shoulders. “Archie Cameron has always had the Prince’s ear since the day when Lochiel sent him to Arisaig to dissuade His Royal Highness from his enterprise. Moreover, ’twas to the Doctor’s own interest to come to Scotland again. There’s always the treasure of Loch Arkaig, about which he knows even more than Cluny—more than any man alive.” The half-sneering expression habitual to his face leapt into full life as he went on, “That gold is like honey to a bee in his case. He dipped pretty deeply into it, did the immaculate Doctor Archibald, when we were in Lochaber together in the ’49!”

      “But not upon his own account!” cried Hector. “Not for himself, Mr. MacPhair! That I’ll never believe!”

      “Your sister is married to a man that’s akin to the Doctor, you told me,” was Glenshian’s retort to this. “Unfortunately, I was there with Archibald Cameron at the time . . . Well, there’s many a man that’s true enough to the Cause, but can’t keep his fingers from the Cause’s money. I don’t blame him overmuch, with that throng family of young children to support. I’ve known what it is to be so near starving myself, Mr. Grant, that I have had to sell my shoe-buckles for bread—’twas when I was released from the Tower. So I’m aware why Archie Cameron finds it suits him to go back to the Highlands at any cost.”

      Hector stared at him, incredulous, yet conscious of a certain inner discomfort. For it was quite true that young Glenshian had accompanied Doctor Cameron and his own kinsman Lochdornie to the Highlands in 1749, and rumours had run among the Scottish exiles over the water that since that date the two latter were scarcely on speaking terms. But when Hector had learnt that these two were going over again together, he had supposed the report much exaggerated. Still, he who spoke with such conviction was the future Chief of Glenshian, and deeper, surely, in the innermost councils of Jacobitism than he, a mere landless French officer.

      “Mr. Grant, I am going to ask you a favour in my turn,” here said Finlay the Red, with an air of having dealt conclusively with the last subject. “I expect you know Captain Samuel Cameron of your regiment?”

      “Crookshanks, as we call him?” answered Hector a little absently, being engaged in dissipating the momentary cloud of humility by the reflection that as one Highland gentleman he was the equal of any other, Chief or no. “The brother of Cameron of Glenevis—that’s the man you mean?”

      “That is the man. They say that one good turn deserves another; will you then take him a letter from me? I’m wanting a messenger this while back, and since you are returning to the regiment, here is my chance, if you will oblige me?”

      Only too pleased to confer some obligation, as a species of set-off against his own, Hector replied that he would be delighted, so Finlay once more seized paper and took up his pen. For a few seconds he nibbled the quill reflectively, the fraction of a smile at the corner of his mouth; then he dashed off a few lines, sealed the missive carefully, and handed it to its bearer. “You’ll not, I hope, be robbed again, Mr. Grant!” he observed, and yet, despite the little laugh which accompanied the words, Hector felt that after what had passed he could not well take offence at them. He accepted the gibe and the letter with meekness, and prepared to take his leave. Young Glenshian rose too.

      “Your visit, Mr. Grant,” he said agreeably, “has been of this advantage to me, that I know now from a first hand source that my kinsman and Doctor Cameron did really make their appearance in the Highlands this autumn. In the absence of news from either of them I have sometimes wondered whether the plan had not fallen through at the last. Though even at that,” he added, smiling, “the evidence is scarcely first hand, since you did not actually set eyes on either of them.”

      “But my brother-in-law, with whom I was imprisoned——” began Hector.

      “Ay, I forgot—a foolish remark of mine that! I’ll pass the testimony as first hand,” said Finlay lightly. “But where, I wonder, did the Doctor go after he had evaded capture at your brother-in-law’s house?”

      “That I never knew,” responded Hector. “In Fort William neither Ardroy nor I had much opportunity for learning such things.”

      “He’ll have made for Loch Arkaig as usual, I expect,” commented young MacPhair. He looked at the table. “Mr. Grant, you’ll take another dram before you leave?”

      “No, thank you, Mr. MacPhair,” replied Hector with a heightened colour. If he could not swallow Mr. MacPhair’s insinuations against Doctor Cameron’s honesty, neither would he swallow his whisky. He went and took up his hat, young Glenshian watching him with that curl of the lip so natural to him that he appeared always to be disdaining his company.

      And then Hector remembered the question which, during these days in London, no Englishman had satisfactorily answered for him. Striving to banish the resentment from his voice and look, he said, “May I venture to ask a question in my turn, Mr. MacPhair? Pray do not answer it if it be too indiscreet. But, as I have told you, it was the proposed scheme for . . . a certain course of action in London which brought me over the sea last September. Why did that scheme come to naught?”

      Mr. MacPhair did not seem to find the question indiscreet, nor did he pause to consider his answer. “Why, for the same reason that the Rising failed in ’46,” he replied with prompt scorn. “Because your English Jacobite is a man of fine promises and no performance, and as timid as a hare! The very day was fixed—the tenth of November—and nothing was done. However, perhaps you’ll yet hear something to rejoice you before the summer is out. Well, a good journey to you, Mr. Grant; commend me to my friends over there. I am very glad to have been of service to you.”

      In his worn dressing-gown, surrounded by that clamorous disorder, Fionnlagh Ruadh nevertheless dismissed his visitor with an air so much de haut en bas that a sudden heavy strain was thrown on the cord of Hector’s gratitude. He bowed, biting his lip a little.

      “I hope I may be able to repay you one day, Mr. MacPhair,” he said formally, and thought, “May the Devil fly with me to the hottest corner of hell if I don’t . . . somehow!”

      “Seumas,” called the young chief, raising his voice, “show this gentleman downstairs.”

      And the gillie, who was peeling potatoes on the landing, hastened to obey. Hector was chagrined that he could not slip a vail into the bony hand, but, not having a penny himself, how could he?

      ‘Arrogant, touchy, and vain as a peacock!’ was his summary of his late host as he walked