“May I ask how he learned it?”

“The laird of Glenfernie, who had been in the Low Countries, told him.  Apparently Glenfernie had acquaintances, agents, who traced it out for him that you had sailed from Dunkirk for Beauly Firth, under the name of Robert Bonshaw.”

“So he was there, pacing the beach,” thought Ian.  He lifted his glass and drank Mr. Wotherspoon’s very good wine.  That gentleman went on.

“It was surmised at Black Hill that you were helping on the event—­the great event, perhaps—­that has occurred.  Indeed, in July, Mr. Touris, writing to me, mentioned that you had been seen beyond Inverness.  But the Highlands are deep and you traveled rapidly.  Of course, when it was known that the Prince had landed, your acquaintance assumed your joining him and becoming, as you have become, an officer in his army.”  He made a little bow.

Ian inclined his head in return.  “All at Black Hill are well, I hope?  My aunt—­”

“Mrs. Alison is a saint.  All earthly grief, I imagine, only quickens her homeward step.”

“What grief has she had, sir, beyond—­”

“Beyond?”

“I know that my aunt will grieve for the break that has come between my uncle and myself.  I have, too,” said Ian, with deliberation, “been quarreled with by an old friend.  That also may distress her.”

The lawyer appeared to listen to sounds from the street.  Rising, he moved to the window, then returned.  “Bonnet lairds coming into town!  You are referring now to Glenfernie?”

“Then he has made it common property that he chose to quarrel with me?”

“Oh, chose to—­” said Mr. Wotherspoon, reflectively.

There was a silence.  Ian set down his wine-glass, made a movement of drawing together, of determination.

“I am sure that there is something of which I have not full understanding.  You will much oblige me by attention to what I now say, Mr. Wotherspoon.  It is possible that I may ask you to see that its substance reaches Black Hill.”  He leaned back in his chair and with his gold-brown eyes met the lawyer’s keen blue ones.  “Nothing now can be injured by telling you that for a year I have acted under responsibility of having in keeping greater fortunes than my own.  That kind of thing, none can know better than you, binds a man out of his own path and his own choices into the path and choices of others.  Secrecy was demanded of me.  I ceased to write home, and presently I removed from old lodgings and purposely blurred indications of where I was or might be found.  In this way—­the warring, troubled time aiding—­it occurred that there practically ceased all communication between me and those of my blood and friendship whose political thinking differs from mine....  I begin to see that I know little indeed of what may or may not have occurred in that countryside.  Early in April, however, there came to my hand in Paris two letters—­one