McKay laughed:  “You know,” he said, “there’s no chance of trouble here.  Glenark is too small a village—­”

“Didn’t I land a brace of Boches at Banff?”

“That’s true.  Well, anyway, I’ll be off, I expect, in a day or so.”  He rose; “and now I’ll show you a bed—­”

“No; I’ve a dog-cart tied out yonder and a chaser lying at Glenark.  By Godfrey, I’m not finished with these Boche-jocks yet!”

“You’re going?”

“You bet.  I’ve a date to keep with a suspicious character—­on a trawler.  Can you beat it?  These vermin creep in everywhere.  Yes, by Godfrey!  They crawl aboard ship in sight of Strathlone Head!  Here’s hoping it may be a yard-arm jig he’ll dance!”

He emptied his glass, refused more.  McKay took him to the wicket and let him loose.

“Well, over the top, old scout!” said Sixty-seven cheerily, exchanging a quick handclasp with McKay.  And so the fog took him.

A week later they found his dead horse and wrecked dog-cart five miles this side of Glenark Burn, lying in a gully entirely concealed by whinn and broom.  It was the noise the flies made that attracted attention.  As for the man himself, he floated casually into the Firth one sunny day with five bullets in him and his throat cut very horridly.

But, before that, other things happened on Isla Water—­long before anybody missed No. 67.  Besides, the horse and dog-cart had been hired for a week; and nobody was anxious except the captain of the trawler, held under mysterious orders to await the coming of a man who never came.

So McKay went back through the fog to his quaint, whitewashed inheritance—­this legacy from a Scotch grandfather to a Yankee grandson—­and when he came into the dark waist of the house he called up very gently:  “Are you awake, Miss Yellow-hair?”

“Yes.  Is all well?”

“All’s well,” he said, mounting the stairs.

“Then—­good night to you Kay of Isla!” she said.

“Don’t you want to hear—­”

“To-morrow, please.”

“But—­”

“As long as you say that all is well I refuse to lose any more sleep!”

“Are you sleepy, Yellow-hair?”

“I am.”

“Aren’t you going to sit up and chat for a few—­”

“I am not!”

“Have you no curiosity?” he demanded, laughingly.

“Not a bit.  You say everything is all right.  Then it is all right—­when Kay of Isla says so!  Good night!”

What she had said seemed to thrill him with a novel and delicious sense of responsibility.  He heard her door close; he stood there in the stone corridor a moment before entering his room, experiencing an odd, indefinite pleasure in the words this girl had uttered—­words which seemed to reinstate him among his kind, words which no woman would utter except to a man in whom she believed.

And yet this girl knew him—­knew what he had been—­had seen him in the depths—­had looked upon the wreck of him.