under _my_ feet for many a day, and they're
taking their advantage now."

But though he could thole, his anger against John was none the less. It
was because they had been under his feet for many a day that John's
conduct was the more heinous. It was his son's conduct that gave
Gourlay's enemies their first opportunity against him, that enabled them
to turn the tables. They might sneer at his trollop of a wife, they
might sneer at his want of mere cleverness; still he held his head high
amongst them. They might suspect his poverty; but so far, for anything
they knew, he might have thousands behind him. He owed not a man in
Barbie. The appointments of Green Shutters were as brave as ever. The
selling of his horses, the dismissal of his men, might mean the
completion of a fortune, not its loss. Hitherto, then, he was
invulnerable--so he reasoned. It was his son's disgrace that gave the
men he had trodden under foot the first weapon they could use against
him. That was why it was more damnable in Gourlay's eyes than the
conduct of all the prodigals that ever lived. It had enabled his foes to
get their knife into him at last, and they were turning the dagger in
the wound. All owing to the boy on whom he had staked such hopes of
keeping up the Gourlay name! His account with John was lengthening
steadily.

Coe was nowhere to be seen. At last Gourlay made up his mind to go out
and make inquiries at his house, out the Fleckie Road. It was a quiet,
big house, standing by itself, and Gourlay was glad there was nobody to
see him.

It was Miss Coe herself who answered his knock at the door.

She was a withered old shrew, with fifty times the spunk of Johnny. On
her thin wrists and long hands there was always a pair of bright red
mittens, only her finger-tips showing. Her far-sunken and toothless
mouth was always working, with a sucking motion of the lips; and her
round little knob of a sticking-out chin munched up and down when she
spoke, a long, stiff whitish hair slanting out its middle. However much
you wished to avoid doing so, you could not keep your eyes from staring
at that solitary hair while she was addressing you. It worked up and
down so, keeping time to every word she spoke.

"Is your brother in?" said Gourlay. He was too near reality in this sad
pass of his to think of "mistering." "Is your brother in?" said he.

"No-a!" she shrilled--for Miss Coe answered questions with an
old-maidish scream, as if the news sh