reached the station, since his enemies would still be undecided
in their minds. Probably they only wanted to make sure that he had
really departed to forget all about him. But if not, he had
his plan ready.

"Are you travelling to-day?" he asked the innkeeper.

"Just as far as the station to see about some oil-cake I'm expectin'.
What's in your wee kist? Ye came here wi' nothing but the bag on
your back."

"Ay, the kist is no' mine. It's my auntie's. She's a kind body,
and nothing would serve but she must pack a box for me to take back.
Let me see. There's a baking of scones; three pots of honey and one
of rhubarb jam--she was aye famous for her rhubarb jam; a mutton ham,
which you can't get for love or money in Glasgow; some home-made
black puddings, and a wee skim-milk cheese. I doubt I'll have to
take a cab from the station."

Dobson appeared satisfied, lit a short pipe, and relapsed
into meditation. The long uphill road, ever climbing to where far
off showed the tiny whitewashed buildings which were the railway
station, seemed interminable this morning. The aged postman
addressed strange objurgations to his aged horse and muttered
reflections to himself, the innkeeper smoked, and Dickson stared back
into the misty hollow where lay Dalquharter. The south-west wind had
brought up a screen of rain clouds and washed all the countryside in
a soft wet grey. But the eye could still travel a fair distance, and
Dickson thought he had a glimpse of a figure on a bicycle leaving the
village two miles back. He wondered who it could be. Not Heritage,