You are to remember that when the events I have narrated befell I
was but a lad, and had a lad's horror of that which smacked of the
supernatural. As we ran, I must have fallen in a swoon, for I remember
nothing more until I found myself walking with trembling feet through
the policies of the ancient mansion of Dearodear. By my side strode
a young nobleman, whom I straightway recognised as the Master. His
gallant bearing and handsome face served but to conceal the black
heart that beat within his breast. He gazed at me with a curious look
in his eyes.

"SQUARETOES, SQUARETOES," said he--it was thus he had named me, and
by that I knew that we were in Scotland, and that my name was become
MACKELLAR--"I have a mind to end your prying and your lectures here
where we stand."

"End it," said I, with a boldness which seemed strange to me even as
I spoke; "end it, and where will you be? A penniless beggar and an
outcast."

"The old fool speaks truly," he continued, kicking me twice violently
in the back, but otherwise ignoring my presence; "and if I end him,
who shall tell the story? Nay, SQUARETOES, let us make a compact. I
will play the villain, and brawl, and cheat, and murder; you shall
take notes of my actions, and, after I have died dramatically in a
North American forest, you shall set up a stone to my memory, and
publish the story. What say you? Your hand upon it."

Such was the fascination of the man that even then I could not
withstand him. Moreover, the measure of his misdeeds was not yet full.
My caution prevailed, and I gave him my hand.