the garret window. As he picked his way out of the mazes of sleep
and recovered the skein of his immediate past, he found to his disgust
that he had lost his composure. All the flock of fears, that had left
him when on the top of the Glasgow tram-car he had made the great decision,
had flown back again and settled like black crows on his spirit.
He was running a horrible risk and all for a whim. What business had
he to be mixing himself up in things he did not understand? It might
be a huge mistake, and then he would be a laughing stock; for a moment
he repented his telegram to Mr. Caw. Then he recanted that suspicion;
there could be no mistake, except the fatal one that he had taken on
a job too big for him. He sat on the edge of the bed and shivered
with his eyes on the grey drift of rain. He would have felt more
stout-hearted had the sun been shining.

He shuffled to the window and looked out. There in the village street
was Dobson, and Dobson saw him. That was a bad blunder, for his reason
told him that he should have kept his presence in Dalquharter hid
as long as possible. There was a knock at the cottage door, and
presently Mrs. Morran appeared.

"It's the man frae the inn," she announced. "He's wantin' a
word wi' ye. Speakin' verra ceevil, too."

"Tell him to come up," said Dickson. He might as well get
the interview over. Dobson had seen Loudon and must know
of their conversation. The sight of himself back again when
he had pretended to be off to Glasgow would remove him effectually
from the class of the unsuspected. He wondered just what line
Dobson would take.