There had been no formality about the meeting at all.  Glenormiston was standing in a rear doorway of the cathedral near the Regent’s Tomb, looking out into the sunny square of Parliament Close, when Mr. Traill and Bobby appeared.  Near seventy, at that time, a backward sweep of white hair and a downward flow of square-cut, white beard framed a boldly featured face and left a generous mouth uncovered.

“Gude morning, Mr. Traill.  So that is the famous dog that has stood sentinel for more than eight years.  He should be tak’n up to the Castle and shown to young soldiers who grumble at twenty-four hours’ guard duty.  How do you do, sir!” The great man, whom the Queen knighted later, and whom the University he was too poor to attend as a lad honored with a degree, stooped from the Regent’s Tomb and shook Bobby’s lifted paw with grave courtesy.  Then, leaving the little dog to entertain himself, he turned easily to his own most absorbing interest of the moment.

“Do you happen to care for Edinburgh antiquities, Mr. Traill?  Reformation piety made sad havoc of art everywhere.  Man, come here!”

Down into the lime dust the Lord Provost and the landlord went, in their good black clothes, for a glimpse of a bit of sculpturing on a tomb that had been walled in to make a passage.  A loose brick removed, behind and above it, the sun flashed through fragments of emerald and ruby glass of a saint’s robe, in a bricked up window.  Such buried and forgotten treasure, Glenormiston explained, filled the entire south transept.  In the High Kirk, that then filled the eastern end of the cathedral, they went up a cheap wooden stairway, to the pew-filled gallery that was built into the old choir, and sat down.  Mr. Traill’s eyes sparkled.  Glenormiston was a man after his own heart, and they were getting along famously; but, oh! it began to seem more and more unlikely that a Lord Provost, who was concerned about such braw things as the restoration of the old cathedral and letting the sun into the ancient tenements, should be much interested in a small, masterless dog.

“Man, auld John Knox will turn over in his bit grave in Parliament Close if you put a ‘kist o’ whustles’ in St. Giles.”  Mr. Traill laughed.

“I admit I might have stopped short of the organ but for the courageous example of Doctor Lee in Greyfriars.  It was from him that I had a quite extravagant account of this wee, leal Highlander a few years ago.  I have aye meant to go to see him; but I’m a busy man and the matter passed out of mind.  Mr. Traill, I’m your sadly needed witness:  I heard you from the doorway of the court-room, and I sent up a note confirming your story and asking, as a courtesy, that the case be turned over to me for some exceptional disposal.  Would you mind telling another man the tale that so moved Doctor Lee?  I’ve aye had a fondness for the human document.”

So there, above the pulpit of the High Kirk of St. Giles, the tale was told again, so strangely did this little dog’s life come to be linked with the highest and lowest, the proudest and humblest in the Scottish capital.  Now, at mention of Auld Jock, Bobby put his shagged paws up inquiringly on the edge of the pew, so that Mr. Traill lifted him.  He lay down flat between the two men, with his nose on his paws, and his little tousled head under the Lord Provost’s hand.