The outer room was an office with the clerk’s chair at a table spread with law papers.  In the inner chamber, which opened from it, a little brisk man sat poring on a deed, from which he scarce raised his eyes upon my entrance; indeed, he still kept his finger in the place, as though prepared to show me out and fall again to his studies.  This pleased me little enough; and what pleased me less, I thought the clerk was in a good posture to overhear what should pass between us.

I asked if he was Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer.

“The same,” says he; “and if the question is equally fair, who may you be yourself?”

“You never heard tell of my name nor of me either,” said I, “but I bring you a token from a friend that you know well.  That you know well,” I repeated, lowering my voice, “but maybe are not just so keen to hear from at this present being.  And the bits of business that I have to propone to you are rather in the nature of being confidential.  In short, I would like to think we were quite private.”

He rose without more words, casting down his paper like a man ill-pleased, sent forth his clerk of an errand, and shut to the house-door behind him.

“Now, sir,” said he, returning, “speak out your mind and fear nothing; though before you begin,” he cries out, “I tell you mine misgives me!  I tell you beforehand, ye’re either a Stewart or a Stewart sent ye.  A good name it is, and one it would ill-become my father’s son to lightly.  But I begin to grue at the sound of it.”

“My name is called Balfour,” said I, “David Balfour of Shaws.  As for him that sent me, I will let his token speak.”  And I showed the silver button.

“Put it in your pocket, sir!” cries he, “Ye need name no names.  The deevil’s buckie, I ken the button of him!  And de’il hae’t!  Where is he now?”

I told him I knew not where Alan was, but he had some sure place (or thought he had) about the north side, where he was to lie until a ship was found for him; and how and where he had appointed to be spoken with.

“It’s been always my opinion that I would hang in a tow for this family of mine,” he cried, “and, dod!  I believe the day’s come now!  Get a ship for him, quot’ he!  And who’s to pay for it?  The man’s daft!”

“That is my part of the affair, Mr. Stewart,” said I.  “Here is a bag of good money, and if more be wanted, more is to be had where it came from.”

“I needn’t ask your politics,” said he.

“Ye need not,” said I, smiling, “for I’m as big a Whig as grows.”

“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” says Mr. Stewart.  “What’s all this?  A Whig?  Then why are you here with Alan’s button? and what kind of a black-foot traffic is this that I find ye out in, Mr. Whig?  Here is a forfeited rebel and an accused murderer, with two hundred pounds on his life, and ye ask me to meddle in his business, and then tell me ye’re a Whig!  I have no mind of any such Whigs before, though I’ve kent plenty of them.”