and Maister Loudon in Auchenlochan does the factorin'. He's let
the public an' filled the twae lodges, and he'll be thinkin' nae
doot that he's done eneuch."

Mrs. Morran had poured some hot water into the big slop-bowl, and
had begun the operation known as "synding out" the cups. It was a
hint that the meal was over, and Dickson and Heritage rose from the
table. Followed by an injunction to be back for supper "on the chap
o' nine," they strolled out into the evening. Two hours of some
sort of daylight remained, and the travellers had that impulse to
activity which comes to all men who, after a day of exercise and
emptiness, are stayed with a satisfying tea.

"You should be happy, Dogson," said the Poet. "Here we have all the
materials for your blessed romance--old mansion, extinct family,
village deserted of men, and an innkeeper whom I suspect of being
a villain. I feel almost a convert to your nonsense myself.
We'll have a look at the House."

They turned down the road which ran north by the park wall, past
the inn, which looked more abandoned than ever, till they came to an
entrance which was clearly the West Lodge. It had once been a
pretty, modish cottage, with a thatched roof and dormer windows,
but now it was badly in need of repair. A window-pane was broken
and stuffed with a sack, the posts of the porch were giving inwards,
and the thatch was crumbling under the attentions of a colony of
starlings. The great iron gates were rusty, and on the coat of
arms above them the gilding was patchy and tarnished. Apparently the
gates were locked, and even the side wicket failed to open to
Heritage's vigorous shaking. Inside a weedy drive disappeared among