JEAN (UNMUFFLING). I've naething to be ashamed of. My name's
Mistress Watt; I'm weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there's naething
again me.

HUNT. No, to be sure, there ain't; and why clap on the blinkers,
my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like
Jerry Hunt that might be your born father? [But all this don't
tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.]

GEORGE (IN AN AGONY). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (GOING WITH

ATTEMPTED SWAGGER.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.


SCENE VI

To these, C, BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern).

LAWSON (FROM THE DOOR). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.

JEAN. That's the Fiscal himsel'.

HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?

LAWSON. That's me. Who'll you be?

HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English
warrant.

LAWSON. There's a place for a' things, officer. Come your ways