in his army."
He made a little bow.

Ian inclined his head in return. "All at Black Hill are well, I hope?
My aunt--"

"Mrs. Alison is a saint. All earthly grief, I imagine, only quickens
her homeward step."

"What grief has she had, sir, beyond--"

"Beyond?"

"I know that my aunt will grieve for the break that has come between
my uncle and myself. I have, too," said Ian, with deliberation, "been
quarreled with by an old friend. That also may distress her."

The lawyer appeared to listen to sounds from the street. Rising, he
moved to the window, then returned. "Bonnet lairds coming into town!
You are referring now to Glenfernie?"

"Then he has made it common property that he chose to quarrel with
me?"

"Oh, chose to--" said Mr. Wotherspoon, reflectively.

There was a silence. Ian set down his wine-glass, made a movement of
drawing together, of determination.

"I am sure that there is something of which I have not full
understanding. You will much oblige me by attention to what I now say,
Mr. Wotherspoon. It is possible that I may ask you to see that its
substance reaches Black Hill." He leaned back in his chair and with
his gold-brown eyes met the lawyer's keen blue ones. "Nothing now can
be injured by telling you that for a year I have acted under
responsibility of having in keeping greater fortunes than my own. That
kind of thing, none can know better than you, binds a man out of his
own path and his own choices into the path and choices of others.
Secrecy was demanded of me. I ceased to write home, and presently I
removed from old lodgings and purposely blurred indications of where I
was or might be found. In this way--the warring, troubled time
aiding--it occurred that there practically ceased all communication
between me and those of my blood and friendship whose political
thinking differs from mine.... I begin to see that I know little
indeed of what may or may not have occurred in that countryside. Early
in April, however, there came to my hand in Paris two letters--one
from my uncle, written before Christmas, one from Alexander Jardine,
written a month later. My uncle's contained the information that,
lacking my immediate return to this island and the political faith of
his side of the house, I was no longer his nephew and heir. The laird
of Glenfernie, upon an old quarrel into which I need not enter, chose
to send me a challenge simply. _Meet him, on such a sands in
Holland_.... Well, great affai