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The new Shakespeare when he comes along will probably be called Grubb or Jubber, if he isn't Jones. With a name like yours I might have a chance. You should be the poet." "I'm very fond of reading," said Dickson modestly. A slow smile crumpled Mr. Heritage's face. "There's a fire in the smoking-room," he observed as he rose. "We'd better bag the armchairs before these fishing louts take them."
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 above them the gilding was patchy and tarnished. Apparently the gates were locked, and even the side wicket failed to open to Heritage's vigorous shaking.
But if ye're my nevoy ye'll hae to keep up my credit, for we're a bauld and siccar lot." Half an hour later there was a furious dissension when Dickson attempted to pay for the night's entertainment. Mrs. Morran would have none of it. "Ye're no' awa' yet," she said tartly, and the matter was complicated by Heritage's refusal to take part in the debate.
"Naturally, he would have no ulterior motive. Did he happen to know that we had a kind of patient under the roof?" Heritage explained that Henson seemed to know something about it. Also, by singular coincidence, he had met Van Sneck abroad. He expressed a desire to see the patient, but Heritage's professional caution had got the better of his friendship for once.
The moments passed more quickly as he wrestled with his fears. The next he knew the empty space below his window was filling with figures. There was a great crowd of them, rough fellows with seamen's coats, still dripping as if they had had a wet landing. Dobson was with them, but for the rest they were strange figures. Now that the expected had come at last Heritage's nerves grew calmer.
Take that in your right hand and put your left hand on my pole, and say after me. 'I swear no' to blab what is telled me in secret, and to be swift and sure in obeyin' orders, s'help me God! Syne kiss the bookie." Dickson at first refused, declaring that it was all havers, but Heritage's docility persuaded him to follow suit. The two were sworn. "Now," said Heritage.
But surely their supports would not advance so confidently in enemy country. The man strode over the slopes as if looking for somebody; then he caught sight of Leon and waved to him to come. Leon must have known him, for he hastened to obey. The two were about thirty yards from Heritage's window. Leon was telling some story volubly, pointing now to the Tower and now towards the sea.
Bare feet stole across the oak flooring, there was the sound of a door swinging on its hinges, and then silence and darkness. Dickson put out a hand for companionship and clutched Heritage's; to his surprise it was cold and all a-tremble. They listened for voices, and thought they could detect a far-away sob. It was some minutes before Dougal returned. "A bonny kettle o' fish," he whispered.
That was the last he saw of the Chieftain, but presently he realized what was the booty he had annexed. It must be Leon's life-preserver, which the night before had broken Heritage's head. After that cheering episode boredom again set in. He collected some food from the Mearns Street box, and indulged himself with a glass of liqueur brandy.
Heritage's patience was nearly exhausted. "I don't want to hear how you got in. What did you find, you little devil?" Heritage sat down before him with a stern face. "Describe them," he commanded. "One o' them is dead auld, as auld as the wife here. She didn't look to me very right in the head." "And the other?" "Oh, just a lassie." "What was she like?"
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