In a moment Mr. Traill was inside his own greatcoat, storm boots
and bonnet. At the door he turned back. The shop was unguarded.
Although Greyfriars Place lay on the hilltop, with the sanctuary
of the kirkyard behind it, and the University at no great
distance in front, it was but a step up from the thief-infested
gorge of the Cowgate. The landlord locked his moneydrawer, pushed
his easy-chair against it, and roused Auld Jock so far as to move
him over from the settle. The chief responsibility he laid on the
anxious little dog, that watched his every movement.

"Lie down, Bobby, and mind Auld Jock. And you're no' a gude dog
if you canna bark to waken the dead in the kirkyard, if ony
strange body comes about."

"Whaur are ye gangin'?" cried Auld Jock. He was wide awake, with
burning, suspicious eyes fixed on his host.

"Sit you down, man, with your back to my siller. I'm going for a
doctor." The noise of the storm, as he opened the door, prevented
his hearing the frightened protest:

"Dinna ging!"

The rain had turned to sleet, and Mr. Traill had trouble in
keeping his feet. He looked first into the famous Book Hunter's
Stall next door, on the chance of finding a medical student. The
place was open, but it had no customers. He went on to the
bridge, but there the sheriff's court, the Martyr's church, the
society halls and all the smart shops were closed, their dark