departure set him free.

After an interval--not by any means the long interval which he had
anticipated--his solitude was enlivened by the appearance of Father
Bishopriggs.

"Well?" cried Arnold, jumping off the dresser, "is the coast clear?"

There were occasions when Mr. Bishopriggs became, on a sudden,
unexpectedly hard of hearing, This was one of them.

"Hoo do ye find the paintry?" he asked, without paying the slightest
attention to Arnold's question. "Snug and private? A Patmos in the
weelderness, as ye may say!"

His one available eye, which had begun by looking at Arnold's face,
dropped slowly downward, and fixed itself, in mute but eloquent
expectation, on Arnold's waistcoat pocket.

"I understand!" said Arnold. "I promised to pay you for the Patmos--eh?
There you are!"

Mr. Bishopriggs pocketed the money with a dreary smile and a sympathetic
shake of the head. Other waiters would have returned thanks. The sage
of Craig Fernie returned a few brief remarks instead. Admirable in many
things, Father Bishopriggs was especially great at drawing a moral. He
drew a moral on this occasion from his own gratuity.

"There I am--as ye say. Mercy presairve us! ye need the siller at every
turn, when there's a woman at yer heels. It's an awfu' reflection--ye