ked. "I saw him
in Rome when he was with the Mission."

"I dinna ken. He was a brave sodger, but he wasna long fechtin' in
France till he got a bullet in his breist. Syne we heard tell o' him
in far awa' bits like Russia; and syne cam' the end o' the war and we
lookit to see him back, fishin' the waters and ridin' like Jehu as in
the auld days. But wae's me! It wasna permitted. The next news we
got, the puir laddie was deid o' influenzy and buried somewhere about
France. The wanchancy bullet maun have weakened his chest, nae doot.
So that's the end o' the guid stock o' Kennedy o' Huntingtower, whae
hae been great folk sin' the time o' Robert Bruce. And noo the Hoose
is shut up till the lawyers can get somebody sae far left to himsel' as
to tak' it on lease, and in thae dear days it's no' just onybody that
wants a muckle castle."

"Who are the lawyers?" Dickson asked.

"Glendonan and Speirs in Embro. But they never look near the place,
and Maister Loudon in Auchenlochan does the factorin'. He's let the
public an' filled the twae lodges, and he'll be thinkin' nae doot that
he's done eneuch."

Mrs. Morran had poured some hot water into the big slop-bowl, and had
begun the operation known as "synding out" the cups. It was a hint
that the meal was over, and Dickson and Heritage rose from the table.
Followed by an injunction to be back for supper "on the chap o' nine,"
they strolled out into the evening. Two hours of some sort of daylight
remained, and the travellers had that impulse to activity which comes
to all men who, after a day of exercise and emptiness, are stayed with
a satisfying tea.

"You should be happy, Dogson," said the Poet. "Here we have all the
materials for your blessed romance--old mansion, extinct family,
village deserted of men, and an innkeeper whom I suspect of being a
villain. I feel almost a convert to your nonsense myself. We'll have a
look at the House."

They turned down the road which ran north by the park wall, past the
inn, which looked more abandoned than ever, till they came to an
entrance which was clearly the West Lodge. It had once been a pretty,
modish cottage, with a thatched roof and dormer windows, but now it was
badly in need of repair. A window-pane was broken and stuffed with a
sack, the posts of the porch were giving inwards, and the thatch was
crumbling under the attentions of a colony of starlings. The great
iron gates were rusty, and on the coat of arms