‘I’ve been up among the distilleries,’ he informed me.  ’It’s a poor business distillin’ in these times, wi’ the teetotallers yowlin’ about the nation’s shame and the way to lose the war.  I’m a temperate man mysel’, but I would think shame to spile decent folks’ business.  If the Government want to stop the drink, let them buy us out.  They’ve permitted us to invest good money in the trade, and they must see that we get it back.  The other way will wreck public credit.  That’s what I say.  Supposin’ some Labour Government takes the notion that soap’s bad for the nation?  Are they goin’ to shut up Port Sunlight?  Or good clothes?  Or lum hats?  There’s no end to their daftness if they once start on that track.  A lawfu’ trade’s a lawfu’ trade, says I, and it’s contrary to public policy to pit it at the mercy of wheen cranks.  D’ye no agree, sir?  By the way, I havena got your name?’

I told him and he rambled on.

’We’re blenders and do a very high-class business, mostly foreign.  The war’s hit us wi’ our export trade, of course, but we’re no as bad as some.  What’s your line, Mr McCaskie?’

When he heard he was keenly interested.

’D’ye say so?  Ye’re from Todd’s!  Man, I was in the book business mysel’, till I changed it for something a wee bit more lucrative.  I was on the road for three years for Andrew Matheson.  Ye ken the name—­Paternoster Row—­I’ve forgotten the number.  I had a kind of ambition to start a book-sellin’ shop of my own and to make Linklater o’ Paisley a big name in the trade.  But I got the offer from Hatherwick’s, and I was wantin’ to get married, so filthy lucre won the day.  And I’m no sorry I changed.  If it hadna been for this war, I would have been makin’ four figures with my salary and commissions . . .  My pipe’s out.  Have you one of those rare and valuable curiosities called a spunk, Mr McCaskie?’

He was a merry little grig of a man, and he babbled on, till I announced my intention of going to bed.  If this was Amos’s bagman, who had been seen in company with Gresson, I understood how idle may be the suspicions of a clever man.  He had probably foregathered with Gresson on the Skye boat, and wearied that saturnine soul with his cackle.

I was up betimes, paid my bill, ate a breakfast of porridge and fresh haddock, and walked the few hundred yards to the station.  It was a warm, thick morning, with no sun visible, and the Skye hills misty to their base.  The three coaches on the little train were nearly filled when I had bought my ticket, and I selected a third-class smoking carriage which held four soldiers returning from leave.

The train was already moving when a late passenger hurried along the platform and clambered in beside me.  A cheery ‘Mornin’, Mr McCaskie,’ revealed my fellow guest at the hotel.

We jolted away from the coast up a broad glen and then on to a wide expanse of bog with big hills showing towards the north.  It was a drowsy day, and in that atmosphere of shag and crowded humanity I felt my eyes closing.  I had a short nap, and woke to find that Mr Linklater had changed his seat and was now beside me.