trace must be picked up at once, in case of accidents. You don't seem
to follow me? I am getting over the ground as fast as the pony gets
over it. I have arrived at the second of those two heads into which your
story divides itself in my mind. What did Miss Silvester tell you had
happened at the inn?"

"She lost a letter at the inn."

"Exactly. She lost a letter at the inn; that is one event. And
Bishopriggs, the waiter, has quarreled with Mrs. Inchbare, and has left
his situation; that is another event. As to the letter first. It is
either really lost, or it has been stolen. In either case, if we can
lay our hands on it, there is at least a chance of its helping us to
discover something. As to Bishopriggs, next--"

"You're not going to talk about the waiter, surely?"

"I am! Bishopriggs possesses two important merits. He is a link in my
chain of reasoning; and he is an old friend of mine."

"A friend of yours?"

"We live in days, my dear, when one workman talks of another workman as
'that gentleman.'--I march with the age, and feel bound to mention my
clerk as my friend. A few years since Bishopriggs was employed in the
clerks' room at my chambers. He is one of the most intelligent and
most unscrupulous old vagabonds in Scotland; perfectly honest as to
all average matters involving pounds, shillings, and pence; perfectly
unprincipled in the pursuit of his own interests, where the violation
of a trust lies on the boundary-line which marks the limit of the law. I