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Indeed, from Strone to Toward, ten or twelve miles, the coast is one continuous street. On the left hand of the Frith are Gourock, Ashton, Inverkip, Wemyss Bay, Skelmorlie, Largs, Fairlie: then comes a bleak range of sandy coast, along which stand Ardrossan, Troon, and Ayr.
And while P. Sybarite gaped, thunderstruck and breathless with the rage excited by this groundless accusation, the detective looked to Shaynon for confirmation. "I stood behind him in the elevator, coming down, ten minutes or so ago," the latter stated heavily. "Mrs. Addison Strone was immediately in front of him. The cage was badly crowded no one could move.
John Splendid, who was of our party, in a lull of the entertainment was looking out at the prospect from a window at the gable end of the hall, for the moon sailed high above Strone, and the outside world was beautiful in a cold and eerie fashion. Of a sudden he faced round and beckoned to me with a hardly noticeable toss of the head. I went over and stood beside him.
"He not only saw her," Shaynon interpolated with a malicious sneer, "but I saw him see her and saw him get away with it." "Get away with what?" P. Sybarite asked blankly. "Mr. Shaynon," drawled the detective, "says he saw you lift a di'mond brooch off'n Mrs. Addison Strone, while you was in the elevator."
"I'll do better 'n that," chuckled the man. "Have a cigar." "Thank you," said P. Sybarite politely, accepting the peace offering. "All I need now is a match: I acknowledge the habit." The match supplied, he smoked in silence. Four minutes passed, by the clock: no sign of the manager, Shaynon, or Mrs. Strone. "Story?" the detective suggested at length. "Plant," retorted P. Sybarite as tersely.
Wishing prosperity and happiness to attend still yourself, worthy Lady, and good family, we are, in the most affectionate manner, Dear sir, Your most obliged, affectionate, and most humble servants, DUGALL CAMERON, of Strone. DUGALL CAMERON, of Ban. DUGALL CAMERON, of Inveriskvouilline. DUGALL CAMERON, of Invinvalie. Strone, 11th March, 1737.
A mellowed wail of the bagpipe came from Strone, the last farewell of the departing soldiers; it was but a moment, then was gone. The wind changed from the land, suddenly the odours of the traffics of peace blew familiarly, the scents of gathered hay and the more elusive perfume of yellowing corn. A myriad birds, among them the noisy rooks the blackest and most numerous, sped home.
Curlews piped dolorously the very psalm of solitude, and when he passed among the hazel-woods of Strone and Achnatra, their dark recesses belled continually with owls.
There was a sign of changing weather above Strone, and Gilian was full of sorrow to think of the girl travelling to him through darkness and rain, so he started out to meet her by the only path on which she must come. He reached the lochs as the night was drawing in. The moor was sounding loud and eerie with the call of large birds.
"Halt!" he cried; the drum and fife ceased, the arms grounded, the soldiers clamoured for their billets. Over the hill of Strone the morning paled, out of the gloom the phantom body came a corps most human, thirsty, hungry, travel-strained. Gilian ran home and found the household awake but unconscious of the great doings in the town. "What!" cried the Cornal, when he heard the news.
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