We are,

    Yours faithfully,

    GUILD AND SHEPHERD.

Our hearts were uplifted, but now we were mightily embarrassed as to the figure we would cut before the Writers to the Signet.  You must remember that we were two young vagabonds in the earliest twenties, travelling with slim knapsacks, and much soiled by a fortnight on the road.  I was in knickerbockers and khaki shirt; Mifflin in greasy gray flannels and subfusc Norfolk.  Our only claims to gentility were our monocles.  Always take a monocle on a vagabond tour:  it is a never-failing source of amusement and passport of gentility.  No matter how ragged you are, if you can screw a pane in your eye you can awe the yokel or the tradesman.

The private records of the firm of Guild and Shepherd doubtless show that on Friday, July 28, 1911, one of their polite young attaches, appearing as per appointment at 17 Heriot Row, was met by two eccentric young gentlemen, clad in dirty white flannel hats, waterproof capes, each with an impressive monocle.  Let it be said to the honour of the attache in question that he showed no symptoms of surprise or alarm.  We explained, I think, that we were scouting for my father, who (it was alleged) greatly desired to settle down in Edinburgh.  And we had presence of mind enough to enquire about plumbing, stationary wash-tubs, and the condition of the flues.  I wish I could remember what rent was quoted.

He showed us all through the house; and you may imagine that we stepped softly and with beating hearts.  Here we were on the very track of the Magician himself:  his spirit whispered in the lonely rooms.  We imagined R.L.S. as a little child, peering from the windows at dusk to see Leerie light the street-lamps outside—­a quaint, thin, elvish face with shining brown eyes; or held up in illness by Cummie to see the gracious dawn heralded by oblongs of light in the windows across the Queen Street gardens.  We saw the college lad, tall, with tweed coat and cigarette, returning to Heriot Row with an armful of books, in sad or sparkling mood.  The house was dim and dusty:  a fine entrance hall, large dining room facing the street—­and we imagined Louis and his parents at breakfast.  Above this, the drawing room, floored with parquet oak, a spacious and attractive chamber.  Above this again, the nursery, and opening off it the little room where faithful Cummie slept.  But in vain we looked for some sign or souvenir of the entrancing spirit.  The room that echoed to his childish glee, that heard his smothered sobs in the endless nights of childish pain, the room where he scribbled and brooded and burst into gusts of youth’s passionate outcry, is now silent and forlorn.

With what subtly mingled feelings we peered from room to room, seeing everything, and yet not daring to give ourselves away to the courteous young agent.  And what was it he said?—­“This was the house of Lord So-and-so” (I forget the name)—­“and incidentally, Robert Louis Stevenson lived here once.  His signature occurs once or twice in the deeds.”