<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XII</h2>
<p class="center">HOW MR. M<sup>c</sup>CUNN COMMITTED AN ASSAULT
UPON AN ALLY</p>
<p>Dickson always maintained that his senses did
not leave him for more than a second or two,
but he admitted that he did not remember very
clearly the events of the next few hours. He was
conscious of a bad pain above his eyes, and something
wet trickling down his cheek. There was a
perpetual sound of water in his ears and of men's
voices. He found himself dropped roughly on the
ground and forced to walk, and was aware that his
legs were inclined to wobble. Somebody had a grip
on each arm, so that he could not defend his face
from the brambles, and that worried him, for his
whole head seemed one aching bruise and he
dreaded anything touching it. But all the time he
did not open his mouth, for silence was the one duty
that his muddled wits enforced. He felt that he
was not the master of his mind, and he dreaded
what he might disclose if he began to babble.</p>
<p>Presently there came a blank space of which he
had no recollection at all. The movement had
stopped, and he was allowed to sprawl on the
ground. He thought that his head had got another
whack from a bough, and that the pain put him
into a stupor. When he awoke he was alone.</p>
<p>He discovered that he was strapped very tightly<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></SPAN></span>
to a young Scotch fir. His arms were bent behind
him and his wrists tied together with cords knotted
at the back of the tree; his legs were shackled, and
further cords fastened them to the bole. Also
there was a halter round the trunk and just under
his chin, so that while he breathed freely enough,
he could not move his head. Before him was a
tangle of bracken and scrub, and beyond that the
gloom of dense pines; but as he could only see
directly in front his prospect was strictly circumscribed.</p>
<p>Very slowly he began to take his bearings. The
pain in his head was now dulled and quite bearable,
and the flow of blood had stopped, for he felt the
incrustation of it beginning on his cheeks. There
was a tremendous noise all around him, and he
traced this to the swaying of tree-tops in the gale.
But there was an undercurrent of deeper sound—water
surely, water churning among rocks. It was
a stream—the Garple of course—and then he remembered
where he was and what had happened.</p>
<p>I do not wish to portray Dickson as a hero, for
nothing would annoy him more; but I am bound
to say that his first clear thought was not of his own
danger. It was intense exasperation at the miscarriage
of his plans. Long ago he should have
been with Dougal arranging operations, giving him
news of Sir Archie, finding out how Heritage was
faring, deciding how to use the coming reinforcements.
Instead he was trussed up in a wood, a
prisoner of the enemy, and utterly useless to his
side. He tugged at his bonds, and nearly throttled<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_227" id="Page_227"></SPAN></span>
himself. But they were of good tarry cord and
did not give a fraction of an inch. Tears of bitter
rage filled his eyes and made furrows on his encrusted
cheeks. Idiot that he had been, he had
wrecked everything! What would Saskia and
Dougal and Sir Archie do without a business man
by their side? There would be a muddle, and the
little party would walk into a trap. He saw it all
very clearly. The men from the sea would overpower
them, there would be murder done, and an
easy capture of the Princess; and the police would
turn up at long last to find an empty headland.</p>
<p>He had also most comprehensively wrecked himself,
and at the thought the most genuine panic
seized him. There was no earthly chance of escape,
for he was tucked away in this infernal jungle till
such time as his enemies had time to deal with him.
As to what that dealing would be like he had no
doubts, for they knew that he had been their chief
opponent. Those desperate ruffians would not
scruple to put an end to him. His mind dwelt with
horrible fascination upon throat-cutting, no doubt
because of the presence of the cord below his chin.
He had heard it was not a painful death; at any
rate he remembered a clerk he had once had, a
feeble, timid creature, who had twice attempted
suicide that way. Surely it could not be very bad,
and it would soon be over.</p>
<p>But another thought came to him. They would
carry him off in the ship and settle with him at their
leisure. No swift merciful death for him. He had
read dreadful tales of the Bolsheviks' skill in tor<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></SPAN></span>ture,
and now they all came back to him—stories
of Chinese mercenaries, and men buried alive, and
death by agonising inches. He felt suddenly very
cold and sick, and hung in his bonds for he had no
strength in his limbs. Then the pressure on his
throat braced him, and also quickened his numb
mind. The liveliest terror ran like quicksilver
through his veins.</p>
<p>He endured some moments of this anguish, till
after many despairing clutches at his wits he managed
to attain a measure of self-control. He certainly
wasn't going to allow himself to become mad.
Death was death whatever form it took, and he
had to face death as many better men had done
before him. He had often thought about it and
wondered how he should behave if the thing came
to him. Respectably, he had hoped; heroically, he
had sworn in his moments of confidence. But he
had never for an instant dreamed of this cold,
lonely, dreadful business. Last Sunday, he remembered,
he had been basking in the afternoon sun in
his little garden and reading about the end of
Fergus MacIvor in <i>Waverley</i> and thrilling to the
romance of it; and then Tibby had come out and
summoned him in to tea. Then he had rather
wanted to be a Jacobite in the '45 and in peril of
his neck, and now Providence had taken him most
terribly at his word.</p>
<p>A week ago——! He groaned at the remembrance
of that sunny garden. In seven days he had
found a new world and tried a new life, and had
come now to the end of it. He did not want to die,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></SPAN></span>
less now than ever with such wide horizons opening
before him. But that was the worst of it, he reflected,
for to have a great life great hazards must
be taken, and there was always the risk of this
sudden extinguisher.... Had he to choose again,
far better the smooth sheltered bypath than this
accursed romantic highway on to which he had
blundered.... No, by Heaven, no! Confound
it, if he had to choose he would do it all again.
Something stiff and indomitable in his soul was
bracing him to a manlier humour. There was no
one to see the figure strapped to the fir, but had
there been a witness he would have noted that at
this stage Dickson shut his teeth and that his
troubled eyes looked very steadily before him.</p>
<p>His business, he felt, was to keep from thinking,
for if he thought at all there would be a flow of
memories, of his wife, his home, his books, his
friends, to unman him. So he steeled himself to
blankness, like a sleepless man imagining white
sheep in a gate.... He noted a robin below the
hazels, strutting impudently. And there was a tit
on a bracken frond, which made the thing sway
like one of the see-saws he used to play with as a
boy. There was no wind in that undergrowth, and
any movement must be due to bird or beast. The
tit flew off, and the oscillations of the bracken
slowly died away. Then they began again, but
more violently, and Dickson could not see the bird
that caused them. It must be something down at
the roots of the covert, a rabbit, perhaps, or a fox,
or a weasel.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>He watched for the first sign of the beast, and
thought he caught a glimpse of tawny fur. Yes,
there it was—pale dirty yellow, a weasel clearly.
Then suddenly the patch grew larger, and to his
amazement he looked at a human face—the face of
a pallid small boy.</p>
<p>A head disentangled itself, followed by thin
shoulders, and then by a pair of very dirty bare
legs. The figure raised itself and looked sharply
round to make certain that the coast was clear.
Then it stood up and saluted, revealing the well-known
lineaments of Wee Jaikie.</p>
<p>At the sight Dickson knew that he was safe by
that certainty of instinct which is independent of
proof, like the man who prays for a sign and has
his prayer answered. He observed that the boy
was quietly sobbing. Jaikie surveyed the position
for an instant with red-rimmed eyes and then unclasped
a knife, feeling the edge of the blade on his
thumb. He darted behind the fir, and a second
later Dickson's wrists were free. Then he sawed
at the legs, and cut the shackles which tied them
together, and then—most circumspectly—assaulted
the cord which bound Dickson's neck to the trunk.
There now remained only the two bonds which
fastened the legs and the body to the tree.</p>
<p>There was a sound in the wood different from
the wind and stream. Jaikie listened like a startled
hind.</p>
<p>"They're comin' back," he gasped. "Just you
bide where ye are and let on ye're still tied up."</p>
<p>He disappeared in the scrub as inconspicuously as<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></SPAN></span>
a rat, while two of the tinklers came up the slope
from the waterside. Dickson in a fever of impatience
cursed Wee Jaikie for not cutting his remaining
bonds so that he could at least have made a
dash for freedom. And then he realised that the
boy had been right. Feeble and cramped as he was,
he would have stood no chance in a race.</p>
<p>One of the tinklers was the man called Ecky.
He had been running hard, and was mopping his
brow.</p>
<p>"Hob's seen the brig," he said. "It's droppin'
anchor ayont the Dookits whaur there's a beild frae
the wund and deep water. They'll be landit in half
an 'oor. Awa' you up to the Hoose and tell
Dobson, and me and Sim and Hob will meet the
boats at the Garplefit."</p>
<p>The other cast a glance towards Dickson.</p>
<p>"What about him?" he asked.</p>
<p>The two scrutinised their prisoner from a distance
of a few paces. Dickson, well aware of his peril,
held himself as stiff as if every bond had been in
place. The thought flashed on him that if he were
too immobile they might think he was dying or
dead, and come close to examine him. If they only
kept their distance, the dusk of the wood would
prevent them detecting Jaikie's handiwork.</p>
<p>"What'll you take to let me go?" he asked
plaintively.</p>
<p>"Naething that you could offer, my mannie,"
said Ecky.</p>
<p>"I'll give you a five-pound note apiece."</p>
<p>"Produce the siller," said the other.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_232" id="Page_232"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"It's in my pocket."</p>
<p>"It's no' that. We riped your pooches lang
syne."</p>
<p>"I'll take you to Glasgow with me and pay you
there. Honour bright."</p>
<p>Ecky spat. "D'ye think we're gowks? Man,
there's no siller ye could pay wad mak' it worth
our while to lowse ye. Bide quiet there and ye'll
see some queer things ere nicht. C'way, Davie."</p>
<p>The two set off at a good pace down the stream,
while Dickson's pulsing heart returned to its normal
rhythm. As the sound of their feet died away Wee
Jaikie crawled out from cover, dry-eyed now and
very business-like. He slit the last thongs, and
Dickson fell limply on his face.</p>
<p>"Losh, laddie, I'm awful stiff," he groaned.
"Now, listen. Away all your pith to Dougal, and
tell him that the brig's in and the men will be landing
inside the hour. Tell him I'm coming as fast
as my legs will let me. The Princess will likely be
there already and Sir Archibald and his men, but
if they're no', tell Dougal they're coming. Haste
you, Jaikie. And see here, I'll never forget what
you've done for me the day. You're a fine wee
laddie!"</p>
<p>The obedient Die-Hard disappeared, and Dickson
painfully and laboriously set himself to climb
the slope. He decided that his quickest and safest
route lay by the highroad, and he had also some
hopes of recovering his bicycle. On examining his
body he seemed to have sustained no very great
damage, except a painful cramping of legs and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></SPAN></span>
arms and a certain dizziness in the head. His
pockets had been thoroughly rifled, and he reflected
with amusement that he, the well-to-do Mr. McCunn,
did not possess at the moment a single copper.</p>
<p>But his spirits were soaring, for somehow his
escape had given him an assurance of ultimate success.
Providence had directly interfered on his
behalf by the hand of Wee Jaikie, and that surely
meant that it would see him through. But his chief
emotion was an ardour of impatience to get to the
scene of action. He must be at Dalquharter before
the men from the sea; he must find Dougal and
discover his dispositions. Heritage would be on
guard in the Tower and in a very little the enemy
would be round it. It would be just like the Princess
to try and enter there, but at all costs that
must be hindered. She and Sir Archie must not be
cornered in stone walls, but must keep their communications
open and fall on the enemy's flank.
Oh, if the police would only come in time, what a
rounding-up of miscreants that day would see!</p>
<p>As the trees thinned on the brow of the slope and
he saw the sky, he realised that the afternoon was
far advanced. It must be well on for five o'clock.
The wind still blew furiously, and the oaks on the
fringes of the wood were whipped like saplings.
Ruefully he admitted that the gale would not defeat
the enemy. If the brig found a sheltered anchorage
on the south side of the headland beyond the Garple,
it would be easy enough for boats to make the
Garple mouth, though it might be a difficult job to
get out again. The thought quickened his steps,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></SPAN></span>
and he came out of cover on to the public road
without a prior reconnaissance.</p>
<p>Just in front of him stood a motor-bicycle. Something
had gone wrong with it for its owner was
tinkering at it, on the side farthest from Dickson.
A wild hope seized him that this might be the vanguard
of the police, and he went boldly towards it.
The owner, who was kneeling, raised his face at the
sound of footsteps and Dickson looked into his
eyes.</p>
<p>He recognised them only too well. They belonged
to the man he had seen in the inn at Kirkmichael,
the man whom Heritage had decided was
an Australian, but whom they now knew to be their
arch-enemy—the man called Paul who had persecuted
the Princess for years and whom alone of all
beings on earth she feared. He had been expected
before, but had arrived now in the nick of time
while the brig was casting anchor. Saskia had said
that he had a devil's brain, and Dickson, as he
stared at him, saw a fiendish cleverness in his
straight brows and a remorseless cruelty in his stiff
jaw and his pale eyes.</p>
<p>He achieved the bravest act of his life. Shaky
and dizzy as he was, with freedom newly opened to
him and the mental torments of his captivity still
an awful recollection, he did not hesitate. He saw
before him the villain of the drama, the one man
that stood between the Princess and peace of mind.
He regarded no consequences, gave no heed to his
own fate, and thought only how to put his enemy
out of action. There was a big spanner lying on<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_235" id="Page_235"></SPAN></span>
the ground. He seized it and with all his strength
smote at the man's face.</p>
<p>The motor-cyclist, kneeling and working hard at
his machine, had raised his head at Dickson's approach
and beheld a wild apparition—a short man
in ragged tweeds, with a bloody brow and long
smears of blood on his cheeks. The next second
he observed the threat of attack, and ducked his
head so that the spanner only grazed his scalp.
The motor-bicycle toppled over, its owner sprang
to his feet, and found the short man, very pale and
gasping, about to renew the assault. In such a
crisis there was no time for inquiry, and the cyclist
was well trained in self-defence. He leaped the
prostrate bicycle, and before his assailant could get
in a blow brought his left fist into violent contact
with his chin. Dickson tottered back a step or two
and then subsided among the bracken.</p>
<p>He did not lose his senses, but he had no more
strength in him. He felt horribly ill, and struggled
in vain to get up. The cyclist, a gigantic figure,
towered above him. "Who the devil are you?"
he was asking. "What do you mean by it?"</p>
<p>Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that
if he tried to speak he would be very sick. He
could only stare up like a dog at the angry eyes.
Angry beyond question they were, but surely not
malevolent. Indeed, as they looked at the shameful
figure on the ground, amusement filled them. The
face relaxed into a smile.</p>
<p>"Who on earth are you?" the voice repeated.
And then into it came recognition. "I've seen you<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></SPAN></span>
before. I believe you're the little man I saw last
week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to explain
why you want to murder me?"</p>
<p>Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction
was being wofully shaken. Saskia had said
her enemy was as beautiful as a devil—he remembered
the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous.
This man was magnificent, but there was nothing
devilish in his lean grave face.</p>
<p>"What's your name?" the voice was asking.</p>
<p>"Tell me yours first," Dickson essayed to stutter
between spasms of nausea.</p>
<p>"My name is Alexander Nicholson," was the
answer.</p>
<p>"Then you're no' the man." It was a cry of
wrath and despair.</p>
<p>"You're a very desperate little chap. For whom
had I the honour to be mistaken?"</p>
<p>Dickson had now wriggled into a sitting position
and had clasped his hands above his aching head.</p>
<p>"I thought you were a Russian, name of Paul,"
he groaned.</p>
<p>"Paul! Paul who?"</p>
<p>"Just Paul. A Bolshevik and an awful bad lot."</p>
<p>Dickson could not see the change which his words
wrought in the other's face. He found himself
picked up in strong arms and carried to a bog-pool
where his battered face was carefully washed, his
throbbing brows laved, and a wet handkerchief
bound over them. Then he was given brandy in
the socket of a flask, which eased his nausea. The
cyclist ran his bicycle to the roadside, and found<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></SPAN></span>
a seat for Dickson behind the turf-dyke of the old
bucht.</p>
<p>"Now you are going to tell me everything," he
said. "If the Paul who is your enemy is the Paul
I think him, then we are allies."</p>
<p>But Dickson did not need this assurance. His
mind had suddenly received a revelation. The
Princess had expected an enemy, but also a friend.
Might not this be the long-awaited friend, for
whose sake she was rooted to Huntingtower with
all its terrors?</p>
<p>"Are you sure you name's no' Alexis?" he asked.</p>
<p>"In my own country I was called Alexis Nicolaevitch,
for I am a Russian. But for some years I
have made my home with your folk, and I call
myself Alexander Nicholson, which is the English
form. Who told you about Alexis?"</p>
<p>"Give me your hand," said Dickson shamefacedly.
"Man, she's been looking for you for weeks.
You're terribly behind the fair."</p>
<p>"She!" he cried. "For God's sake tell me all
you know."</p>
<p>"Ay, she—the Princess. But what are we havering
here for? I tell you at this moment she's somewhere
down about the old Tower, and there's boatloads
of blagyirds landing from the sea. Help me
up, man, for I must be off. The story will keep.
Losh, it's very near the darkening. If you're Alexis,
you're just about in time for a battle."</p>
<p>But Dickson on his feet was but a frail creature.
He was still deplorably giddy, and his legs showed
an unpleasing tendency to crumple. "I'm fair<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></SPAN></span>
done," he moaned. "You see, I've been tied up all
day to a tree and had two sore bashes on my head.
Get you on that bicycle and hurry on, and I'll hirple
after you the best I can. I'll direct you the road,
and if you're lucky you'll find a Die-Hard about
the village. Away with you, man, and never mind
me."</p>
<p>"We go together," said the other quietly. "You
can sit behind me and hang on to my waist. Before
you turned up I had pretty well got the thing in
order."</p>
<p>Dickson in a fever of impatience sat by while the
Russian put the finishing touches to the machine,
and as well as his anxiety allowed put him in possession
of the main facts of the story. He told of
how he and Heritage had come to Dalquharter, of
the first meeting with Saskia, of the trip to Glasgow
with the jewels, of the exposure of Loudon the
factor, of last night's doings in the House, and of
the journey that morning to the Mains of Garple.
He sketched the figures on the scene—Heritage and
Sir Archie, Dobson and his gang, the Gorbals Die-Hards.
He told of the enemy's plans so far as he
knew them.</p>
<p>"Looked at from a business point of view," he
said, "the situation's like this. There's Heritage in
the Tower, with Dobson, L�on and Spidel sitting
round him. Somewhere about the place there's the
Princess and Sir Archibald and three men with guns
from the Mains. Dougal and his five laddies are
running loose in the policies. And there's four
tinklers and God knows how many foreign ruffians<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></SPAN></span>
pushing up from the Garplefoot, and a brig lying
waiting to carry off the ladies. Likewise there's
the police, somewhere on the road, though the dear
kens when they'll turn up. It's awful the incompetence
of our Government, and the rates and taxes
that high!... And there's you and me by this
roadside, and I'm no more use than a tattie-bogle....
That's the situation, and the question is what's
our plan to be? We must keep the blagyirds in
play till the police come, and at the same time we
must keep the Princess out of danger. That's why
I'm wanting back, for they've sore need of a business
head. Yon Sir Archibald's a fine fellow, but
I doubt he'll be a bit rash, and the Princess is no'
to hold or bind. Our first job is to find Dougal
and get a grip of the facts."</p>
<p>"I am going to the Princess," said the Russian.</p>
<p>"Ay, that'll be best. You'll be maybe able to
manage her, for you'll be well acquaint."</p>
<p>"She is my kinswoman. She is also my affianced
wife."</p>
<p>"Keep us!" Dickson exclaimed, with a doleful
thought of Heritage. "What ailed you then no' to
look after her better?"</p>
<p>"We have been long separated, because it was
her will. She had work to do and disappeared from
me, though I searched all Europe for her. Then
she sent me word, when the danger became extreme,
and summoned me to her aid. But she gave me
poor directions, for she did not know her own plans
very clearly. She spoke of a place called Darkwater,
and I have been hunting half Scotland for it.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></SPAN></span>
It was only last night that I heard of Dalquharter
and guessed that that might be the name. But I
was far down in Galloway, and have ridden fifty
miles to-day."</p>
<p>"It's a queer thing, but I wouldn't take you for
a Russian."</p>
<p>Alexis finished his work and put away his tools.
"For the present," he said, "I am an Englishman,
till my country comes again to her senses. Ten
years ago I left Russia, for I was sick of the foolishness
of my class and wanted a free life in a new
world. I went to Australia and made good as an
engineer. I am a partner in a firm which is pretty
well known even in Britain. When war broke out
I returned to fight for my people, and when Russia
fell out of the war, I joined the Australians in
France and fought with them till the Armistice.
And now I have only one duty left, to save the
Princess and take her with me to my new home till
Russia is a nation once more."</p>
<p>Dickson whistled joyfully. "So Mr. Heritage
was right. He aye said you were an Australian....
And you're a business man! That's grand
hearing and puts my mind at rest. You must take
charge of the party at the House, for Sir Archibald's
a daft young lad and Mr. Heritage is a poet.
I thought I would have to go myself, but I doubt
I would just be a hindrance with my dwaibly legs.
I'd be better outside, watching for the police....
Are you ready, sir?"</p>
<p>Dickson not without difficulty perched himself
astride the luggage carrier, firmly grasping the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></SPAN></span>
rider round the middle. The machine started, but
it was evidently in a bad way, for it made poor
going till the descent towards the main Auchenlochan
road. On the slope it warmed up and they
crossed the Garple bridge at a fair pace. There
was to be no pleasant April twilight, for the stormy
sky had already made dusk, and in a very little the
dark would fall. So sombre was the evening that
Dickson did not notice a figure in the shadow of
the roadside pines till it whistled shrilly on its
fingers. He cried on Alexis to stop, and, this being
accomplished with some suddenness, fell off at
Dougal's feet.</p>
<p>"What's the news?" he demanded.</p>
<p>Dougal glanced at Alexis and seemed to approve
his looks.</p>
<p>"Napoleon has just reported that three boatloads,
making either twenty-three or twenty-four
men—they were gey ill to count—has landed at
Garplefit and is makin' their way to the auld Tower.
The tinklers warned Dobson and soon it'll be a'
bye wi' Heritage."</p>
<p>"The Princess is not there?" was Dickson's
anxious inquiry.</p>
<p>"Na, na. Heritage is there his lone. They were
for joinin' him, but I wouldn't let them. She came
wi' a man they call Sir Erchibald and three gemkeepers
wi' guns. I stoppit their cawr up the road
and tell't them the lie o' the land. Yon Sir Erchibald
has poor notions o' strawtegy. He was for
bangin' into the auld Tower straight away and
shootin' Dobson if he tried to stop them. 'Havers,'<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></SPAN></span>
say I, 'let them break their teeth on the Tower,
thinkin' the leddy's inside, and that'll give us time,
for Heritage is no' the lad to surrender in a
hurry.'"</p>
<p>"Where are they now?"</p>
<p>"In the Hoose o' Dalquharter, and a sore job I
had gettin' them in. We've shifted our base again,
without the enemy suspectin'."</p>
<p>"Any word of the police?"</p>
<p>"The polis!" and Dougal spat cynically. "It
seems they're a dour crop to shift. Sir Erchibald
was sayin' that him and the lassie had been to the
Chief Constable, but the man was terrible auld and
slow. They convertit him, but he threepit that it
would take a long time to collect his men and that
there was no danger o' the brig landin' afore night.
He's wrong there onyway, for they're landit."</p>
<p>"Dougal," said Dickson, "you've heard the Princess
speak of a friend she was expecting here called
Alexis. This is him. You can address him as Mr.
Nicholson. Just arrived in the nick of time. You
must get him into the House, for he's the best right
to be beside the lady.... Jaikie would tell you
that I've been sore mishandled the day, and am no'
very fit for a battle. But Mr. Nicholson's a business
man and he'll do as well. You're keeping the
Die-Hards outside, I hope?"</p>
<p>"Ay. Thomas Yownie's in charge, and Jaikie
will be in and out with orders. They've instructions
to watch for the polis, and keep an eye on the
Garplefit. It's a mortal long front to hold, but
there's no other way. I must be in the Hoose<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></SPAN></span>
mysel'. Thomas Yownie's headquarters is the auld
wife's hen-hoose."</p>
<p>At that moment in a pause of the gale came the
far-borne echo of a shot.</p>
<p>"Pistol," said Alexis.</p>
<p>"Heritage," said Dougal. "Trade will be gettin'
brisk with him. Start your machine and I'll hang
on ahint. We'll try the road by the West Lodge."</p>
<p>Presently the pair disappeared in the dusk, the
noise of the engine was swallowed up in the wild
orchestra of the wind, and Dickson hobbled towards
the village in a state of excitement which made him
oblivious of his wounds. That lonely pistol shot
was, he felt, the bell to ring up the curtain on the
last act of the play.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></SPAN></span></p>
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