‘Ye’re unco lavish wi’ the words, sir,’ was her only comment.

We parted with regret, and there was nearly a row when I tried to pay for the tea.  I was bidden remember her to one David Tudhole, farmer in Nether Mirecleuch, the next time I passed by Wamphray.

The village was as quiet when I left it as when I had entered.  I took my way up the hill with an easier mind, for I had got off the telegram, and I hoped I had covered my tracks.  My friend the postmistress would, if questioned, be unlikely to recognize any South African suspect in the frank and homely traveller who had spoken with her of Annandale and the Pilgrim’s Progress.

The soft mulberry gloaming of the west coast was beginning to fall on the hills.  I hoped to put in a dozen miles before dark to the next village on the map, where I might find quarters.  But ere I had gone far I heard the sound of a motor behind me, and a car slipped past bearing three men.  The driver favoured me with a sharp glance, and clapped on the brakes.  I noted that the two men in the tonneau were carrying sporting rifles.

‘Hi, you, sir,’ he cried.  ‘Come here.’  The two rifle-bearers—­solemn gillies—­brought their weapons to attention.

‘By God,’ he said, ’it’s the man.  What’s your name?  Keep him covered, Angus.’

The gillies duly covered me, and I did not like the look of their wavering barrels.  They were obviously as surprised as myself.

I had about half a second to make my plans.  I advanced with a very stiff air, and asked him what the devil he meant.  No Lowland Scots for me now.  My tone was that of an adjutant of a Guards’ battalion.

My inquisitor was a tall man in an ulster, with a green felt hat on his small head.  He had a lean, well-bred face, and very choleric blue eyes.  I set him down as a soldier, retired, Highland regiment or cavalry, old style.

He produced a telegraph form, like the policeman.

’Middle height—­strongly built—­grey tweeds—­brown hat—­speaks with a colonial accent—­much sunburnt.  What’s your name, sir?’

I did not reply in a colonial accent, but with the hauteur of the British officer when stopped by a French sentry.  I asked him again what the devil he had to do with my business.  This made him angry and he began to stammer.

’I’ll teach you what I have to do with it.  I’m a deputy-lieutenant of this county, and I have Admiralty instructions to watch the coast.  Damn it, sir, I’ve a wire here from the Chief Constable describing you.  You’re Brand, a very dangerous fellow, and we want to know what the devil you’re doing here.’

As I looked at his wrathful eye and lean head, which could not have held much brains, I saw that I must change my tone.  If I irritated him he would get nasty and refuse to listen and hang me up for hours.  So my voice became respectful.

’I beg your pardon, sir, but I’ve not been accustomed to be pulled up suddenly, and asked for my credentials.  My name is Blaikie, Captain Robert Blaikie, of the Scots Fusiliers.  I’m home on three weeks’ leave, to get a little peace after Hooge.  We were only hauled out five days ago.’  I hoped my old friend in the shell-shock hospital at Isham would pardon my borrowing his identity.