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That he had again killed a sheriff and fought a whole posse, yielding only with his life, was never once doubted, and kept his memory green in Sierran chronicles long after Wynyard's Bar had itself become a memory. The American consul at St. Kentigern stepped gloomily from the train at Whistlecrankie station.
He opened it impatiently to a tall gillie, who instantly strode into the room. There was such another suggestion of Kilcraithie in the man and his manner that the consul instantly divined that he was Kilcraithie's servant. "I'll be takin' some bit things that yon Whistlecrankie left," said the gillie gravely, with a stolid glance around the room. "Certainly," said the consul; "help yourself."
This time he was prepared. With a half smile he stepped softly to the door and opened it suddenly. To his intense surprise he was face to face with a man. But his discomfiture was as nothing compared to that of the stranger whom he at once recognized as one of his fellow-guests the youthful Laird of Whistlecrankie.
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