He marshalled us upstairs—­he and Mr. Portlethorpe had already taken their night-caps while they talked,—­and when he had bestowed the senior visitor in his room, he came to me in mine, carrying an alarm clock which he set down at my bed-head.

“Hugh, my man!” he said, “you’ll have to stir yourself an hour before Mr. Portlethorpe and me.  I’ve set that implement for five o’clock.  Get yourself up when it rings, and make yourself ready and go round to Murray at the police-station—­rouse him out of his bed.  Tell him what we heard from that man Hollins tonight, and bid him communicate with the Glasgow police to look out for Sir Gilbert Carstairs.  Tell him, too, that we’re going on to Edinburgh, and why, and that, if need be, I’ll ring him up from the Station Hotel during the morning with any news we have, and I’ll ask for his at the same time.  Insist on his getting in touch with Glasgow—­it’s there, without doubt, that Lady Carstairs went off, and where Sir Gilbert would meet her; let him start inquiries about the shipping offices and the like.  And that’s all—­and get your bit of sleep.”

I had Murray out of his bed before half-past five that morning, and I laid it on him heavily about the Glasgow affair, which, as we came to know later, was the biggest mistake we made, and one that involved us in no end of sore trouble; and at a quarter-past six Mr. Lindsey and Mr. Portlethorpe and I were drinking our coffee and blinking at each other over the rims of the cups.  But Mr. Lindsey was sharp enough of his wits even at that hour, and before we set off from Berwick he wrote out a telegram to Mr. Gavin Smeaton, asking him to meet us in Edinburgh during the day, so that Mr. Portlethorpe might make his acquaintance.  This telegram he left with his housekeeper—­to be dispatched as soon as the post-office was open.  And then we were off, and by half-past eight were at breakfast in the Waverley Station; and as the last stroke of ten was sounding from the Edinburgh clocks we were walking into the premises of the Scottish-American Bank.

The manager, who presently received us in his private rooms, looked at Mr. Lindsey and Mr. Portlethorpe with evident surprise—­it may have been that there was mystery in their countenances.  I know that I, on my part, felt as if a purblind man might have seen that I was clothed about with mystery from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot!  And he appeared still more surprised when Mr. Lindsey, briefly, but fully, explained why we had called upon him.

“Of course, I’ve read the newspapers about your strange doings at Berwick,” he observed, when Mr. Lindsey—­aided by some remarks from Mr. Portlethorpe—­had come to the end of his explanation.  “And I gather that you now want to know what we, here, know of Sir Gilbert Carstairs and Mr. John Paley.  I can reply to that in a sentence—­nothing that is to their discredit!  They are two thoroughly estimable and trustworthy gentlemen, so far as we are aware.”