"I do not know the real name," said I. "I just call it Alan's
air."

She looked at me directly in the face. "I shall call it David's
air," said she; "though if it's the least like what your namesake
of Israel played to Saul I would never wonder that the king got
little good by it, for it's but melancholy music. Your other name
I do not like; so if you was ever wishing to hear your tune again
you are to ask for it by mine."

This was said with a significance that gave my heart a jog. "Why
that, Miss Grant?" I asked.

"Why," says she, "if ever you should come to get hanged, I will set
your last dying speech and confession to that tune and sing it."

This put it beyond a doubt that she was partly informed of my story
and peril. How, or just how much, it was more difficult to guess.
It was plain she knew there was something of danger in the name of
Alan, and thus warned me to leave it out of reference; and plain
she knew that I stood under some criminal suspicion. I judged
besides that the harshness of her last speech (which besides she
had followed up immediately with a very noisy piece of music) was
to put an end to the present conversation. I stood beside her,
affecting to listen and admire, but truly whirled away by my own
thoughts. I have always found this young lady to be a lover of the
mysterious; and certainly this first interview made a mystery that
was beyond my plummet. One thing I learned long after, the hours
of the Sunday had been well employed, the bank porter had been
found and examined, my visit to Charles Stewart was discovered, and