Dickson McCunn - Complete 'Gorbals Die-hards' Series. Buchan John

there the faintest shadow of a blush on her cheek? “There is something more,” she said.

      She spoke to Heritage in French, and Dickson caught the name “Alexis” and a word which sounded like “prance.” The Poet listened eagerly and nodded. “I have heard of him,” he said.

      “But have you not seen him? A tall man with a yellow beard, who bears himself proudly. Being of my mother’s race he has eyes like mine.”

      “That’s the man she was askin’ me about yesterday,” said Dougal, who had squatted on the floor.

      Heritage shook his head. “We only came here last night. When did you expect Prince—your friend.”

      “I hoped to find him here before me. Oh, it is his not coming that terrifies me. I must wait and hope. But if he does not come in time another may come before him.”

      “The ones already here are not all the enemies that threaten you?”

      “Indeed, no. The worst has still to come, and till I know he is here I do not greatly fear Spidel or Leon. They receive orders and do not give them.”

      Heritage ran a perplexed hand through his hair. The sunset which had been flaming for some time in the unshuttered panes was now passing into the dark. The girl lit a lamp after first shuttering the rest of the windows. As she turned up the wick the odd dusty room and its strange company were revealed more clearly, and Dickson saw with a shock how haggard was the beautiful face. A great pity seized him and almost conquered his timidity.

      “It is very difficult to help you,” Heritage was saying. “You won’t leave this place, and you won’t claim the protection of the law. You are very independent, Mademoiselle, but it can’t go on for ever. The man you fear may arrive at any moment. At any moment, too, your treasure may by discovered.”

      “It is that that weighs on me,” she cried. “The jewels! They are my solemn trust, but they burden me terribly. If I were only rid of them and knew them to be safe I should face the rest with a braver mind.”

      “If you’ll take my advice,” said Dickson slowly, “you’ll get them deposited in a bank and take a receipt for them. A Scotch bank is no’ in a hurry to surrender a deposit without it gets the proper authority.”

      Heritage brought his hands together with a smack. “That’s an idea. Will you trust us to take these things and deposit them safely?”

      For a little she was silent and her eyes were fixed on each of the trio in turn. “I will trust you,” she said at last. “I think you will not betray me.”

      “By God, we won’t!” said the Poet fervently. “Dogson, it’s up to you. You march off to Glasgow in double quick time and place the stuff in your own name in your own bank. There’s not a moment to lose. D’you hear?”

      “I will that.” To his own surprise Dickson spoke without hesitation. Partly it was because of his merchant’s sense of property, which made him hate the thought that miscreants should acquire that to which they had no title; but mainly it was the appeal in those haggard childish eyes. “But I’m not going to be tramping the country in the night carrying a fortune and seeking for trains that aren’t there. I’ll go the first thing in the morning.”

      “Where are they?” Heritage asked.

      “That I do not tell. But I will fetch them.”

      She left the room, and presently returned with three odd little parcels wrapped in leather and tied with thongs of raw hide. She gave them to Heritage, who held them appraisingly in his hand and then passed them on to Dickson.

      “I do not ask about their contents. We take them from you as they are, and, please God, when the moment comes they will be returned to you as you gave them. You trust us, Mademoiselle?”

      “I trust you, for you are a soldier. Oh, and I thank you from my heart, my friends.” She held out a hand to each, which caused Heritage to grow suddenly very red.

      “I will remain in the neighbourhood to await developments,” he said. “We had better leave you now. Dougal, lead on.”

      Before going, he took the girl’s hand again, and with a sudden movement bent and kissed it. Dickson shook it heartily. “Cheer up, Mem,” he observed. “There’s a better time coming.” His last recollection of her eyes was of a soft mistiness not far from tears. His pouch and pipe had strange company jostling them in his pocket as he followed the others down the ladder into the night.

      Dougal insisted that they must return by the road of the morning. “We daren’t go by the Laver, for that would bring us by the public-house. If the worst comes to the worst, and we fall in wi’ any of the deevils, they must think ye’ve changed your mind and come back from Auchenlochan.”

      The night smelt fresh and moist as if a break in the weather were imminent. As they scrambled along the Garple Dean a pinprick of light below showed where the tinklers were busy by their fire. Dickson’s spirits suffered a sharp fall and he began to marvel at his temerity. What in Heaven’s name had he undertaken? To carry very precious things, to which certainly he had no right, through the enemy to distant Glasgow. How could he escape the notice of the watchers? He was already suspect, and the sight of him back again in Dalquharter would double that suspicion. He must brazen it out, but he distrusted his powers with such tell-tale stuff in his pockets. They might murder him anywhere on the moor road or in an empty railway carriage. An unpleasant memory of various novels he had read in which such things happened haunted his mind… There was just one consolation. This job over, he would be quit of the whole business. And honourably quit, too, for he would have played a manly part in a most unpleasant affair. He could retire to the idyllic with the knowledge that he had not been wanting when Romance called. Not a soul should ever hear of it, but he saw himself in the future tramping green roads or sitting by his winter fireside pleasantly retelling himself the tale.

      Before they came to the Garple bridge Dougal insisted that they should separate, remarking that “it would never do if we were seen thegither.” Heritage was despatched by a short cut over fields to the left, which eventually, after one or two plunges into ditches, landed him safely in Mrs. Morran’s back yard. Dickson and Dougal crossed the bridge and tramped Dalquharter-wards by the highway. There was no sign of human life in that quiet place with owls hooting and rabbits rustling in the undergrowth. Beyond the woods they came in sight of the light in the back kitchen, and both seemed to relax their watchfulness when it was most needed. Dougal sniffed the air and looked seaward.

      “It’s coming on to rain,” he observed. “There should be a muckle star there, and when you can’t see it it means wet weather wi’ this wind.”

      “What star?” Dickson asked.

      “The one wi’ the Irish-lukkin’ name. What’s that they call it? O’Brien?” And he pointed to where the constellation of the hunter should have been declining on the western horizon.

      There was a bend of the road behind them, and suddenly round it came a dogcart driven rapidly. Dougal slipped like a weasel into a bush, and presently Dickson stood revealed in the glare of a lamp. The horse was pulled up sharply and the driver called out to him. He saw that it was Dobson the innkeeper with Leon beside him.

      “Who is it?” cried the voice. “Oh, you! I thought ye were off the day?”

      Dickson rose nobly to the occasion.

      “I thought myself I was. But I didn’t think much of Auchenlochan, and I took a fancy to come back and spend the last night of my holiday with my Auntie. I’m off to Glasgow first thing the morn’s morn.”

      “So!” said the voice. “Queer thing I never saw ye on the Auchenlochan road, where ye can see three mile before ye.”

      “I left early and took it easy along the shore.”

      “Did ye so? Well, good-sight to ye.”

      Five minutes later Dickson walked into Mrs. Morran’s kitchen, where Heritage