lesome figure than in the smoking-room the
night before. He seemed to be in a companionable mood, for he
brandished his stick and shouted greetings.

"Well met!" he cried; "I was hoping to fall in with you again. You must
have thought me a pretty fair cub last night."

"I did that," was the dry answer.

"Well, I want to apologize. God knows what made me treat you to a
university-extension lecture. I may not agree with you, but every
man's entitled to his own views, and it was dashed poor form for me to
start jawing you."

Mr. McCunn had no gift of nursing anger, and was very susceptible to
apologies.

"That's all right," he murmured. "Don't mention it. I'm wondering what
brought you down here, for it's off the road."

"Caprice. Pure caprice. I liked the look of this butt-end of nowhere."

"Same here. I've aye thought there was something terrible nice about a
wee cape with a village at the neck of it and a burn each side."

"Now that's interesting," said Mr. Heritage. "You're obsessed by a
particular type of landscape. Ever read Freud?"

Dickson shook his head.

"Well, you've got an odd complex somewhere. I wonder where the key
lies. Cape--woods--two rivers--moor behind. Ever been in love, Dogson?"

Mr. McCunn was startled. "Love" was a word rarely mentioned in his
circle except on death-beds, "I've been a married man for thirty
years," he said hurriedly.

"That won't do. It should have been a hopeless affair-the last sight
of the lady on a spur of coast with water on three sides--that kind of
thing, you know, or it might have happened to an ancestor.... But you
don't look the kind of breed for hopeless attachments. More likely some
scoundrelly old Dogson long ago found sanctuary in this sort of place.
Do you dream about it?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, I do. The queer thing is that I've got the same prepossession
as you. As soon as I spotted this Cruives place on the map this
morning, I saw it was what I was after. When I came in sight of it I
almost shouted. I don't very often dream but when I do that's the
place I frequent. Odd, isn't it?"

Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this unexpected revelation of
romance. "Maybe it's being in love," he daringly observed.

The Poet demurred. "No. I'm not a connoisseur of obvious sentiment.
That explanation might fit your case, but not mine. I'm pretty certain
there's something hideous at the back of MY complex--some grim old
business tuc