Bobby stopped barking in sheer astonishment.  He gazed after the stiff, retreating back, in frightened disbelief that he was not to be let out.  He attacked the stone under the barrier, but quickly discovered its unyielding nature.  Then he howled until the sentinel came back, but when the man went by without looking at him he uttered a whimpering cry and fled upward.  The roadway was dark and the dusk was gathering on the citadel when Bobby dashed across the summit and down into the brightly lighted square of the Palace Yard.

The gas-lamps were being lighted on the bridge, and Mr. Traill was getting into his streetcoat for his call on Mr. Brown when Tammy put his head in at the door of the restaurant.  The crippled laddie had a warm, uplifted look, for Love had touched the sordid things of life, and a miracle had bloomed for the tenement dwellers around Greyfriars.

“Maister Traill, Mrs. Brown says wull ye please send Bobby hame.  Her gude-mon’s frettin’ for ‘im; an’ syne, a’ the folk aroond the kirkyaird hae come to the gate to see the bittie dog’s braw collar.  They wullna believe the Laird Provost gied it to ’im for a chairm gin they dinna see it wi’ their gin een.”

“Why, mannie, Bobby’s no’ here.  He must be in the kirkyard.”

“Nae, he isna.  I ca’ed, an’ Ailie keeked in ilka place amang the stanes.”

They stared at each other, the landlord serious, the laddie’s lip trembling.  Mr. Traill had not returned from his numerous errands about the city until the middle of the afternoon.  He thought, of course, that Bobby had been in for his dinner, as usual, and had returned to the kirkyard.  It appeared, now, that no one about the diningrooms had seen the little dog.  Everybody had thought that Mr. Traill had taken Bobby with him.  He hurried down to the gate to find Mistress Jeanie at the wicket, and a crowd of tenement women and children in the alcove and massed down Candlemakers Row.  Alarm spread like a contagion.  In eight years and more Bobby had not been outside the kirkyard gate after the sunset bugle.  Mrs. Brown turned pale.

“Dinna say the bittie dog’s lost, Maister Traill.  It wad gang to the heart o’ ma gudemon.”

“Havers, woman, he’s no’ lost.”  Mr. Traill spoke stoutly enough.  “Just go up to the lodge and tell Mr. Brown I’m—­weel, I’ll just attend to that sma’ matter my ainsel’.”  With that he took a gay face and a set-up air into the lodge to meet Mr. Brown’s glowering eye.

“Whaur’s the dog, man?  I’ve been deaved aboot ‘im a’ the day, but I haena seen the sonsie rascal nor the braw collar the Laird Provost gied ‘im.  An’ syne, wi’ the folk comin’ to spier for ‘im an’ swarmin’ ower the kirkyaird, ye’d think a warlock was aboot.  Bobby isna your dog—­”

“Haud yoursel’, man.  Bobby’s a famous dog, with the freedom of Edinburgh given to him, and naething will do but Glenormiston must show him to a company o’ grand folk at his bit country place.  He’s sending in a cart by a groom, and I’m to tak’ Bobby out and fetch him hame after a braw dinner on gowd plate.  The bairns meant weel, but they could no’ give Bobby a washing fit for a veesit with the nobeelity.  I had to tak’ him to a barber for a shampoo.”