Mac Tavish played it pat! "And 'tis the mill rule; it lacks twal' meenutes o' the hour--and the clock yon on the wall is richt!" Thus referring all responsibility to the clock, the paymaster dipped his pen and went on with his figures. The Governor cross-creased the natural deep furrows in his face with ridges which registered indignant amazement. "You have lost your wits, but you seem to have your eyes! Use them!" "It's the mill rule!" "But we are not here on mill business!" "Then it canna concern me." "Officer, do you know what part of the mill Mayor Morrison is in?" The Governor turned from Mac Tavish to Rellihan. "He is nae sic thing as mayor till ten o' the clock and till he cooms here for the crackin wi' yon corbies!" declared the old paymaster, pointing derogatory penstock through the wicket at "the crows" who were ranged along the settees. Rellihan shook his head. "Well, at any rate, go hunt him up," commanded His Excellency. Rellihan shook his head again; this seemed to be an occasion where unnecessary talking fell under interdiction; for that matter, Rellihan possessed only a vocabulary to use in talking down to the proletariat; he was debarred from telling these dignitaries to "shut up and sit aisy!" "A blind man, now a dumb man--Colonel Shaw, go and hunt up the man we're here to see!" The colonel feigned elaborately not to hear. "And finally a deaf one! Take off those ear-tabs! Go and bring the mayor here!" Mac Tavish dropped from his stool, armed himself with two paper-weights, and took up a strategic position near the door which led into the passage to the mill. "Roderick Dhu at bay! Impressive tableau!" whispered the young man of the Corson party in Lana's ear, displaying such significant and wonted familiarity that Miss Bunker, employing her vigilance exclusively in the direction in which her fears and her interest lay, sighed and muttered. The door of the corridor was flung open suddenly! The staccato of the orchestra of the looms sounded more loudly and provided entrance music. Astonishment rendered Mac Tavish _hors de combat_. He dropped his weights and his lower jaw sagged. It was the Morrison--breaking the ancient rule of St. Ronan's--ten minutes ahead of time! II THE THREAT OF WHAT THE NIGHT MAY BRING All the Morrisons were upstickit chiels in point of height. Stewart had appeared so abruptly, he towered so dominantly, that a stranger would have expected a general precipitateness of personality and speech to go with his looks. But after he had closed the door he stood and stroked his palm slowly over his temple, smoothing down his fair hair--a gesture that was a part of his individuality; and his smile, while it was not at all diffident, was deprecatory. He began to roll down the sleeves of his shirt.