IN THE COURSE OF THE morning Leithen went for a walk among the scaurs and dingles of Crask hill. He followed a footpath which took him down the channel of a tiny burn and led to a little mantelpiece of a meadow from which Wattie Lithgow drew a modest supply of bog-hay. His mind was so filled with his coming adventure that he walked with his head bent and at a turn of the path nearly collided with a man.
Murmuring a gruff “Fine day,” he would have passed on, when he became aware that the stranger had halted. Then, to his consternation, he heard his name uttered, and had perforce to turn. He saw a young man, in knickerbockers and heavy nailed boots, who smiled diffidently as if uncertain whether he would be recognised.
“Sir Edward Leithen, isn’t it?” he said. “I once had the pleasure of me
