'Certainly, sir,' he said with alacrity. 'I'll soon polish them up. But it's a dirty job; don't you bother with them. I'll see to them in the back-kitchen.' In conversation with Betty or Nathan, Joe employs the Doric as they do; but, thanks to his service in the south and abroad, he is equally familiar with English as it is read, and in speaking to me he doesn't even betray the semblance of the Scots accent. I hadn't bargained for his taking the pistols off to the back-kitchen, however. This wouldn't suit my plan. Joint operations were necessary for a crack such as I wanted. Accordingly I suggested we should cover the better-lit end of the table with a newspaper, and exercise care; and so it came to pass that in a few minutes Joe and I were up to the wrists in emery and oil, and our tongues going like Betty's hand-bells. CHAPTER XVI. At length, by finesse and a good deal of circumlocution, I got the conversation worked round from accidental shooting to accidental meetings, related one or two coincidences which made him pause in his work, and then casually mentioned that Betty had told me of his meeting Miss Stuart, and the shock he had received. 'Yes, Mr Russell,' he said, 'I don't know what to say about that. I couldn't get to sleep last night for thinking of it.' 'Well, Joe, it seems plain enough to me. The lady you knew died twenty-four years ago. Miss Stuart is not more than twenty-five, so it couldn't possibly be she whom you knew.' 'That is so, sir; I admit that,' and he stopped polishing; 'and it's a far cry from Thornhill to Toledo; but the Miss Stuart I saw last night was wearing a locket which I am sure belonged to a Mrs Stuart who died in Toledo twenty-four years ago. If I'm wrong, then, sir, my name is not Joseph Hebron.' I was positively tingling with excitement, and strangely conscious I was on the eve of a great discovery. A thousand thoughts flashed through my mind; I felt quite overcome and bewildered. Here, 'far from the madding crowd,' in this sleepy little village with its easy-going, unpretentious ways, I had met the woman God made for me; and there, polishing the barrel of my grandsire's old pistol, stood one of the least important of its villagers, who of a surety held the key to all the mysteries that had baffled our unveiling. It seemed unreal, incredible, impossible, yet it was absolutely true, for clutched to my heart I held the sacred memory of our moonlight talk, I felt the touch of her hand, and her parting words were ever ringing in my ears; and Joe's earnestness and assurance were as a presage to me that the mists would soon be rolled away. Betty's words came to me, 'If it's ocht ye want to ken, ye maunna ask him questions;' but I felt I must put her advice aside. Questions must be asked, and answers must be given willingly, not dragged out; and if I was to obtain these answers Joe must be to some extent taken into my confidence.