“I doubt we have done better than you, then,” said I; “and, at least, here is a great deal of matter that you must judge of. Do you see that?” I went on, pointing to the ship. “That is the _Seahorse_, Captain Palliser.” “I should ken her, too,” says Alan. “I had fyke enough with her when she was stationed in the Forth. But what ails the man to come so close?” “I will tell you why he came there first,” said I. “It was to bring this letter to James More. Why he stops here now that it’s delivered, what it’s likely to be about, why there’s an officer hiding in the bents, and whether or not it’s probable that he’s alone—I would rather you considered for yourself.” “A letter to James More?” said he. “The same,” said I. “Well, and I can tell ye more than that,” said Alan. “For the last night, when you were fast asleep, I heard the man colloguing with some one in the French, and then the door of that inn to be opened and shut.” “Alan!” cried I, “you slept all night, and I am here to prove it.” “Ay, but I would never trust Alan whether he was asleep or waking!” says he. “But the business looks bad. Let’s see the letter.” I gave it him. “Catriona,” said he, “you have to excuse me, my dear; but there’s nothing less than my fine bones upon the cast of it, and I’ll have to break this seal.” “It is my wish,” said Catriona. He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand in the air. “The stinking brock!” says he, and crammed the paper in his pocket. “Here, let’s get our things together. This place is fair death to me.” And he began to walk towards the inn. It was Catriona that spoke the first. “He has sold you?” she asked. “Sold me, my dear,” said Alan. “But thanks to you and Davie, I’ll can jink him yet. Just let me win upon my horse,” he added. “Catriona must come with us,” said I. “She can have no more traffic with that man. She and I are to be married.” At which she pressed my hand to her side. “Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking back. “The best day’s work that ever either of you did yet! And I’m bound to say, my dawtie, ye make a real, bonny couple.” The way that he was following brought us close in by the windmill, where I was aware of a man in seaman’s trousers, who seemed to be spying from behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear. “See, Alan!” “Wheesht!” said, he, “this is my affairs.” The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clattering of the mill, and we got up close before he noticed. Then he turned, and we saw he was a big fellow with a mahogany face. “I think, sir,” says Alan, “that you speak the English?” “_Non_, _monsieur_,” says he, with an incredible bad accent. “_Non_, _monsieur_,” cries Alan, mocking him. “Is that how they learn you French on the _Seahorse_? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here’s a Scots boot to your English hurdies!”