“I know this place!”
Mr. Kemp had stopped on a slight ridge that overlooked a broad valley. There was a dry-stone dyke stretching forever in either direction, powdered with frozen snow and with the occasional gate marked by tall stone posts. In front of us, and nestling comfortably in a hollow sheltered by mature trees, was the big house in which I had seen Louise dance only a few nights before.
The house was long and low, only three stories high and built in the most modern neo-classical style, with severe Doric pillars flanking a front door to which a dozen steps made a sweeping entrance. Yellow light gleamed from a score of tall windows, and all around was the aura of wealth and comfort.
“This is Cairnsmuir House,” Mr. Kemp told me. “And we are going inside.”
“But Mr. Kemp; I do not
