trusts a foreigner. They're
suspeeshus characters, the best o' them."

Cleek threw back his head and laughed--laughed heartily.

"Well," said he, with a shake of the head, "perhaps you're right. Though
I won't say that my experience has always been just that. However, the
lady does not seem to find favour in your eyes. Mr. Ross Duggan I
haven't met."

"A fine upstanding gentleman, sair, wi' ne'er a mean bone in his body."

"And Miss Duggan?"

"A gentle, kind creature wi' a hearrt o' gold. She'd do nought to harrm
anny one, sair, and I've proof o' that--bless her! Nor Miss McCall,
either."

"Miss McCall?"

"Lady Paula's companion and handy maid, sair. A leddy, if I knaws one.
Engaged to Mistair Tavish, I unnerstand--though 'tis not yet given out
to the gran' folk. But the' have th' saft look in their e'e for one
anaither. And 'tis juist that it means. A puir freeted creatur' wi' an
e'e fer the ghost o' the Castle. She'll have a fine mon in Mistair
Tavish, I assure ye. And now 'tis time ye saw yer rume, sair, or I'm no
a guid host ye'll ken."

So saying, Mr. Fairnish moved away from the bar reluctantly, as one
stung by duty into doing something for which he had no relish, for bar
and Fairnish were as synonymous as the Dawn and the Day--and almost as
inseparable.

Cleek watched him with upflung eyebrow and keen eye. Then he followed,
and set a hand upon the garrulous fellow's sleeve.

"Mr. Fairnish," he said quietly, "you've interested me immensely. My own
fellow-folk, you know--what is it that Pope says?--'The proper study of
mankind is man.' Well, it's like that with me. Perhaps I'm
over-curious--there are a lot of us like that in this world. But you
mentioned a ghostly visitant of the Castle just now. You were speaking
in jest, of course?"

An imperceptible something passed like a shadow over Mr. Fairnish's
rugged face. He gave a shiver.

"In jest ye tak eet?" he said a trifle huskily. "Weel, 'tis in airnest
that I spoke. For nevair a step near the grounds will ought o' th'
countryside go at night. 'Tis a lang story, and I've no time to be
tellin' it thee noo, sair, but here's a leetle. 'Tis a peasant-gairl
that a Sair Andrew of the sixteenth century, I ken, abducted from her
propair parents (they lived in the Lowlands, so I've heard tell), and
brought to th' castle and locked up--for his ain pleasure! 'Tis a sorry
tale, for the puir maid deed o' a broken hearrt an' a broken speerit,
too, I tak' it, ni