“It’s a gentleman, sir, by the name o’ Mr. Sutherlan’, wha wants your help, sir, aboot somebody or ither ‘at he’s enteresstit in, wha’s disappeared.” Falconer advanced, and, bowing to Hugh said, very graciously: “I shall be most happy to serve Mr. Sutherland, if in my power. Our friend MacPherson has rather too exalted an idea of my capabilities, however.” “Weel, Maister Falconer, I only jist spier at yersel’, whether or no ye was ever dung wi’ onything ye took in han’.” Falconer made no reply to this. There was the story of a whole life in his silence—past and to come. He merely said: “You can leave the gentleman with me, then, John. I’ll take care of him.” “No fear o’ that, sir. Deil a bit! though a’ the policemen i’ Lonnon war efter ‘im.” “I’m much obliged to you for bringing him.” “The obligation’s mine sir—an’ the gentleman’s. Good nicht, sir. Good nicht, Mr. Sutherlan’. Ye’ll ken whaur to fin’ me gin ye want me. Yon’s my beat for anither fortnicht.” “And you know my quarters,” said Hugh, shaking him by the hand. “I am greatly obliged to you.” “Not a bit, sir. Or gin ye war, ye sud be hertily welcome.” “Bring candles, Mrs. Ashton,” Falconer called from the door. Then, turning to Hugh, “Sit down, Mr. Sutherland,” he said, “if you can find a chair that is not illegally occupied already. Perhaps we had better wait for the candles. What a pleasant day we have had!” “Then you have been more pleasantly occupied than I have,” thought Hugh, to whose mind returned the images of the Appleditch family and its drawing-room, followed by the anticipation of the distasteful duties of the morrow. But he only said: “It has been a most pleasant day.” “I spent it strangely,” said Falconer. Here the candles were brought in. The two men looked at each other full in the face. Hugh saw that he had not been in error. The same remarkable countenance was before him. Falconer smiled. “We have met before,” said he. “We have,” said Hugh. “I had a conviction we should be better acquainted, but I did not expect it so soon.” “Are you a clairvoyant, then?” “Not in the least.” “Or, perhaps, being a Scotchman, you have the second sight?” “I am hardly Celt enough for that. But I am a sort of a seer, after all—from an instinct of the spiritual relations of things, I hope; not in the least from the nervo-material side.” “I think I understand you.” “Are you at leisure?” “Entirely.”