Dickson's spirits suffered a sharp fall and he began to marvel at
his temerity. What in Heaven's name had he undertaken? To carry
very precious things, to which certainly he had no right, through
the enemy to distant Glasgow. How could he escape the notice of
the watchers? He was already suspect, and the sight of him back
again in Dalquharter would double that suspicion. He must brazen
it out, but he distrusted his powers with such tell-tale stuff
in his pockets. They might murder him anywhere on the moor road
or in an empty railway carriage. An unpleasant memory of various
novels he had read in which such things happened haunted his mind....
There was just one consolation. This job over, he would be quit
of the whole business. And honourably quit, too, for he would have
played a manly part in a most unpleasant affair. He could retire to
the idyllic with the knowledge that he had not been wanting when
Romance called. Not a soul should ever hear of it, but he saw
himself in the future tramping green roads or sitting by his winter
fireside pleasantly retelling himself the tale.

Before they came to the Garple bridge Dougal insisted that they
should separate, remarking that "it would never do if we were seen
thegither." Heritage was despatched by a short cut over fields to
the left, which eventually, after one or two plunges into ditches,
landed him safely in Mrs. Morran's back yard. Dickson and Dougal
crossed the bridge and tramped Dalquharter-wards by the highway.
There was no sign of human life in that quiet place with owls
hooting and rabbits rustling in the undergrowth. Beyond the woods
they came in sight of the light in the back kitchen, and both seemed
to relax their watchfulness when it was most needed. Dougal sniffed
the air and looked seaward.