who live all their life in a semi-detached villa and die worth half
a million." And the Londoner had cordially assented.

So Dickson was ushered promptly into an inner room, and was warmly
greeted by Mr. Mackintosh, the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards.

"I must thank you for your generous donation, McCunn. Those boys will
get a little fresh air and quiet after the smoke and din of Glasgow.
A little country peace to smooth out the creases in their poor
little souls."

"Maybe," said Dickson, with a vivid recollection of Dougal as he
had last seen him. Somehow he did not think that peace was likely
to be the portion of that devoted band. "But I've not come here to
speak about that."

He took off his waterproof; then his coat and waistcoat; and showed
himself a strange figure with sundry bulges about the middle.
The manager's eyes grew very round. Presently these excrescences
were revealed as linen bags sewn on to his shirt, and fitting into
the hollow between ribs and hip. With some difficulty he slit the
bags and extracted three hide-bound packages.

"See here, Mackintosh," he said solemnly. "I hand you over these
parcels, and you're to put them in the innermost corner of your
strong room. You needn't open them. Just put them away as they are,
and write me a receipt for them. Write it now."

Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand.