minutes syne."

"And what's to prevent that?" asked the Chamberlain almost sharply.
"Your Grace will admit it's nothing to the point," said he, boldly, and
smilingly, standing up, a fine figure of a man, with his head high and
his chest out. "It was the toss of a bawbee whether or not I should
apprehend him myself when I saw him, and if I had him here your Grace
would be the first to admit my discretion."

"My Grace is a little more judicious than to treat the casual pedestrian
like a notour thief," said Argyll; "and yet, after all, I dare say the
matter may be left to your good judgment--that is, after you have had
a word or two on the matter with Petullo, who will better be able to
advise upon the rights to the persons of suspicious characters in our
neighbourhood."

With never a word more said MacTaggart clapped on his hat, withdrew in
an elation studiously concealed from his master, and fared at a canter
to Petullo's office in the town. He fastened the reins to the ring at
the door and entered.

The lawyer sat in a den that smelt most wickedly of mildewed vellum,
sealing-wax, tape, and all that trash that smothers the soul of man--the
appurtenances of his craft. He sat like a sallow mummy among them,
like a half-man made of tailor's patches, flanked by piles of docketed
letters and Records closed, bastioned by deed-boxes blazoned with
the indication of their offices--MacGibbon's Mortification, Dunderave
Estate, Coil's Trust, and so on; he sat with a shrieking quill among
these things, and MacTaggart entering to him felt like thanking God that
he had never been compelled to a life like this in a stinking mortuary,
with the sun outside on the windows and the clean sea and the singing
wood calling in vain. Perhaps some sense of contrast seized the writer,
too, as he looked up to see the Chamberlain entering with a pleasant,
lively air of wind behind him, and health and vigour in his step,
despite the unwonted wanness of his face. At least, in the glance
Petullo gave below his shaggy eyebrows, there was a little envy as well
as much cunning. He made a ludicrous attempt at smiling.

"Ha!" he cried, "Mr. MacTaggart! Glad to see you, Mr. MacTaggart. Sit ye
down, Mr. MacTaggart. I was just thinking about you."

"No ill, I hope," said the Chamberlain, refusing a seat proffered;
for anything of the law to him seemed gritty in the touch, and a
three-legged stool would, he always felt, be as unpleasant to sit upon
as a