you to each other. Mr. West, this is General Heatherstone, who is about
to take a lease of Cloomber Hall."

I held out my hand to the tall man, who look it in a hesitating,
half-reluctant fashion.

"I came up," I explained, "because I saw your lights in the windows, and
I bought that something might be wrong. I am very glad I did so, since
it has given me the chance of making the general's acquaintance."

Whilst I was talking, I was conscious that the new tenant of Cloomber
Hall was peering at me very closely through the darkness. As I
concluded, he stretched out a long, tremulous arm, and turned the
gig-lamp in such a way as to throw a flood of light upon my face.

"Good Heavens, McNeil!" he cried, in the same quivering voice as before,
"the fellow's as brown as chocolate. He's not an Englishman. You're
not an Englishman--you, sir?"

"I'm a Scotchman, born and bred," said I, with an inclination to laugh,
which was only checked by my new acquaintance's obvious terror.

"A Scotchman, eh?" said he, with a sigh of relief. "It's all one
nowadays. You must excuse me, Mr.--Mr. West. I'm nervous, infernally
nervous. Come along, McNeil, we must be back in Wigtown in less than an
hour. Good-night, gentlemen, good-night!"

The two clambered into their places; the factor cracked his whip, and
the high dog-cart clattered away through the darkness, casting a
brilliant tunnel of yellow light on either side of it, until the rumble