ffairs. Na, not you! But some fowk
has no richt to consideration. The verra stanes they say 'ill cry oot
ill secrets like brither Sandy's.'

'Whase hoose is 't?'

'I dinna ken. I only saw him come oot o' 't ance, an' Jock Mitchell was
haudin' Black Geordie roon' the neuk. It canna be far frae Mr. Lindsay's
'at you an' Mr. Ericson used to gang till.'

'Come an' lat me see 't direckly,' cried Robert, starting up, with a
terrible foreboding at his heart.

They were in the street in a moment. Shargar led the way by a country
lane to the top of the hill on the right, and then turning to the left,
brought him to some houses standing well apart from each other. It was a
region unknown to Robert. They were the backs of the houses of which Mr.
Lindsay's was one.

'This is the hoose,' said Shargar.

Robert rushed into action. He knocked at the door. Mr. Lindsay's Jenny
opened it.

'Is yer mistress in, Jenny?' he asked at once.

'Na. Ay. The maister's gane to Bors Castle.'

'It's Miss Lindsay I want to see.'

'She's up in her ain room wi' a sair heid.'

Robert looked her hard in the face, and knew she was lying.

'I want to see her verra partic'lar,' he said.

'Weel, ye canna see her,' returned Jenny angrily. 'I'll tell her
onything ye like.'

Concluding that little was to be gained by longer parley, but quite
uncertain whether Mysie was in the house or not, Robert turned to
Shargar, took him by the arm, and walked away in silence. When they were
beyond earshot of Jenny, who stood looking after them,

'Ye're sure that's the hoose, Shargar?' said Robert quietly.

'As sure's deith, and maybe surer, for I saw him come oot wi' my ain
een.'

'Weel, Shargar, it's grown something awfu' noo. It's Miss Lindsay. Was
there iver sic a villain as that Lord Rothie--that brither o' yours!'

'I disoun 'im frae this verra 'oor,' said Shargar solemnly.

'Something maun be dune. We'll awa' to the quay, an' see what'll turn
up. I wonner hoo's the tide.'

'The tide's risin'. They'll never try to win oot till it's slack
watter--furbye 'at the Amphitrite, for as braid 's she is, and her bows
modelled efter the cheeks o' a resurrection cherub upo' a gravestane,
draws a heap o' watter: an' the bar they say 's waur to win ower nor
usual: it's been gatherin' again.'

As they spoke, the boys were making for the new town, eagerly. Just
opposite where the Amphitrite lay was a public-house: into that they
made up their minds to go, a