The Dark Mile. D. K. Broster

Aweel, ye can jalouse what was intill the letter—it sent the Doctor ootbye i’ the windy tae the gallows.”

      Mr. MacPhair drew a long breath. “You remember the wording?”

      “Aye, certes. ‘If ye wish tae tak Doctor Cameron, send wi’oot delay tae the hoose o’ Duncan Stewart o’ Glenbuckie in Balquhidder, where the writer saw him no’ ten days syne.’ ”

      “That was all? And there was no name of any kind—not even initials?”

      “No’ a letter! Ye may be sure Ah keekit inside an’ oot. There wasna a scratch. . . . Aweel, Ah cam tae Lord Tinwald’s hoose, an’ Ah thocht tae masel’, Gin this letter is sae important, the Lord Justice-Clerk may gie me anither croun tae lie beside ma gentleman’s. Sae Ah tellt his man there wad aiblins be an answer, ‘though Ah dinna ken for sure,’ Ah says, ‘for though the bit seal is broken, Ah canna read ae ward o’ write.’ (Yon was a guid lee, but it was better tae say that.) Syne the auld judge sent for me, and Ah cud see he was fair uplifted; and he speired what like was the man who gied me the letter. Ah tellt him, a douce sort o’ man, yin that Ah’d never seen afore in ma life. Then he gied me na croun, but a hale gowden guinea. . . . And when Ah heard that Doctor Cameron was ta’en by the redcoats i’ Glenbuckie, and a’ the Whigs in Enbra was sae cock-a-hoop, Ah had a mind tae gang tae Lord Tinwald and speir if the bit letter wasna worth mair, but Ah thocht better o’ it, for Ah micht hae fand masel’ i’ the Tolbooth for meddlin’ wi’ affairs o’ State. . . . And unless ye keep a shut mouth, Chief o’ Glenshian, Ah micht find masel’ there yet!”

      And he looked anxiously at the listener in the dirty wooden chair.

      “It’s for you to keep that,” said the young man, leaning forward. “This is to be kept a secret betwixt you and me, Mr. Shand; and you shall not find yourself the worse of that, I promise you. You have not condescended much to me upon the particulars of your gentleman’s appearance, but I suppose that you would know him again if you saw him?”

      “Ma certie Ah wad that.”

      “And you could write a letter?”

      “Aye. . . mebbe Ah cud.”

      “If it were made worth your while, I presume? What I propose, then, is that if you see this gentleman again you shall use every endeavour to find out who he is and where he lives. You will then communicate these facts to me, by word of mouth if I be still in Edinburgh, by writing if I have taken my departure for the Highlands, as I am about to do. Do you understand?”

      “Aye.”

      “You undertake to do that then? I will pay you well for it.” The guineas jingled.

      “Ah’d like fine tae ken first what ye intend tae dae wi’ the gentleman gin Ah find him for ye?”

      “I shall do him no harm. I merely wish to have a conversation with him, by which he will not suffer; on the contrary. ’Tis not vengeance that I am after, man! What’s done is done, and Doctor Cameron cannot be brought to life again. Is it a bargain?”

      “There’s aye twa sides tae a bargain,” observed Mr. Shand, wriggling on the bed. “What wad Ah get, noo, for a’ this wark an’ the fash of sendin’ a letter tae ye in the Hielands?”

      “You shall have three guineas for it,” responded his visitor. “That’s paying you well—overpaying you, in fact.”

      Once more Hendry was seen slightly to lick his lips. “Yon will be as well as the twa ye’re tae gie me the noo?”

      Glenshian hesitated a moment. “Yes,” he said at last reluctantly. “You shall have the three guineas in addition, making five in all. Three more guineas when I receive the gentleman’s name and his direction.”

      Hendry licked his lips openly this time. “Five guineas!” he repeated below his breath. “Ye swear that, Mr. MacPhair?”

      “My word is my bond,” responded Mr. MacPhair haughtily. “Nevertheless, I swear it.” He pulled out a pocketbook, scribbled something and tore out a leaf. “Here is where I lodge in Edinburgh; should I be gone for the Highlands, you’ll address your letter to me at Invershian.”

      His agent did not immediately take the paper. “Ah’ll need ye tae be swearin’ too that ye’ll never tell the gentleman, if ye get this bit crack wi’ him that ye’re ettlin’ after, wha ’twas that fand him for ye?”

      The young Chief rose. “I am willing to swear that too, and by the sword of Red Finlay of the Battles, my ancestor. A MacPhair who breaks that oath is like to die within the year. Take this paper, hold your tongue, and be diligent. Here’s your two guineas.”

      Hendry held out his dirty palm, bit the coins severally, stowed them away in some recess inside his shabby coat, then seized the unwilling hand of his visitor and dissolved into maudlin tears.

      “Ah’ll scarce tak bite nor sup nor sleep o’ nichts till Ah find him for ye, Chief o’ Glenshian,” he hiccoughed. “Ah’ll hunt like the tod efter him—wi’ the Lord’s assistance—and ye sall ken his name near as soon as Ah lairn it masel’ . . . . Ye’re awa? Ah’ll unsnib the dure for ye, sir. Gude bless ye, Gude bless ye in a’ yer undertakin’s!”

      § 3

      The rain had quite ceased, and a tremulous sunlight was now gilding the pools and the wet pebbles beyond the archway as MacPhair of Glenshian, with this benediction upon his head, closed the door of Mr. Shand’s retreat behind him. People had even come into the streets again, for, as he then emerged into the mouth of the close, he was aware of a figure standing where he had stood a little while ago, in front of the shop window. But this figure was a woman’s.

      For one brief second Finlay MacPhair studied her from the mouth of the wynd. He was looking at a gentlewoman of about thirty, whose bare hands were loosely clasped in front of her, and who was undoubtedly gazing at the print of Doctor Cameron; from his position in a line with the window Mr. MacPhair could even see the deeply sorrowful expression on her face, and guessed that her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. If sad, she was uncommonly pretty. But was that a wedding ring upon her left hand, or was it not?

      He stepped out from the archway, and was aware that the lady never so much as moved an eyelash, so absorbed was she in her mournful gazing. The young Chief knew a stab of pique; he drew up his fine figure and cast a glance, as he passed, at the lady’s back. So doing, he saw an excellent opportunity of breaking in upon that unflattering reverie, for on the stones between her and the gutter lay a forlorn little grey glove. He picked it up and approached the fair owner.

      “Madam,” he said in the most courtly tones, “I think this glove must be your property.”

      Startled out of her preoccupation, the lady half turned. “My glove, sir . . . have I dropped one?”

      “I believe so. Allow me the privilege of restoring it,” said Glenshian with a smile. He put it into her hand, took the opportunity of directing an appraising stare under her bonnet, then swept her a low bow, replaced his hat, and walked slowly away.

      A few seconds later, while the lady, holding her recovered glove, was still looking after the figure of its rescuer, who by now had crossed the Lawnmarket and was walking down the other side, the door of the shop opened and a very tall and broad-shouldered man was stooping his head to come out of it.

      “So you finished with your mantua-maker sooner than you expected, my dear,” he observed with a smile. “And whom, by the way, were you talking to just now? I did not see.”

      “I have no notion,” replied the lady. “ ’Twas merely a gentleman who was kind enough to restore the glove I had dropped. There he goes!”

      The newcomer turned and looked, and instantly the most remarkable change came over him. At first he stood as still as death, staring after the departing figure of Finlay MacPhair; the next moment he had taken a couple of steps forward and was