"That's maybe the fact," Dickson admitted.

"Well! It's just on that point I want a word with you." The innkeeper
seated himself unbidden on the chair which held Dickson's modest raiment.
He leaned forward and with a coarse forefinger tapped Dickson's
pyjama-clad knees. "I can't have ye wandering about the place.
I'm very sorry, but I've got my orders from Mr. Loudon. So if you
think that by bidin' here you can see more of the House and the
policies, ye're wrong, Mr. McCunn. It can't be allowed, for we're no'
ready for ye yet. D'ye understand? That's Mr. Loudon's orders..
..Now, would it not be a far better plan if ye went back to Glasgow and
came back in a week's time? I'm thinking of your own comfort, Mr. McCunn."

Dickson was cogitating hard. This man was clearly instructed to get
rid of him at all costs for the next few days. The neighbourhood had
to be cleared for some black business. The tinklers had been deputed
to drive out the Gorbals Die-Hards, and as for Heritage they seemed
to have lost track of him. He, Dickson, was now the chief object
of their care. But what could Dobson do if he refused? He dared
not show his true hand. Yet he might, if sufficiently irritated.
It became Dickson's immediate object to get the innkeeper to reveal
himself by rousing his temper. He did not stop to consider the
policy of this course; he imperatively wanted things cleared up and
the issue made plain.

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to you for thinking so much about
my comfort," he said in a voice into which he hoped he had
insinuated a sneer. "But I'm bound to say you're awful suspicious
folk about here. You needn't be feared for your old policies.