emed 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 was busy making up for a day of short provender.

"I'm for Glasgow to-morrow, Auntie Phemie," he cried. "I want you to
loan me a wee trunk with a key, and steek the door and windows, for
I've a lot to tell you."

CHAPTER VI

HOW MR. McCUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION

At seven o'clock on the following morning the post-cart, summoned by an
early message from Mrs. Morran, appeared outside the cottage. In it sat
the ancient postman, whose real home was Auchenlochan, but who slept
alternate nights in Dalquharter, and beside him Dobson the innkeeper.
Dickson and his hostess stood at the garden-gate, the former with his
pack on his back, and at his feet a small stout wooden box, of the kind
in which cheeses are transported, garnished with an immense padlock.
Heritage for obvious reasons did not appear; at the moment he was
crouched on the floor of the loft watching the departure through a gap
in the dimity curtains.

The traveller, after making sure that Dobson was looking, furtively
slipped the key of the trunk into h