"Stories! There have always been stories about Glune and its inmates, past and present," said Brand. "Tragedies mostly. The Farquharsons of Glune are all men of violence; leaders of forlorn hopes; knights-errant to distressed damsels, saints or outcasts; fierce heroes from whose doings tiresome bards make tiresome music—you know the sort of thing." Cummings not only knew "the sort of thing," but held it very sacred, so he kept his peace. "Well, what’s the present Farquharson of Glune thinking about to let good land lie fallow like this?" he asked. "Farquharson of Glune is about ten years old," said Brand. He gave his explanations complacently, with the air of a broker propitiating his client with some valuable tip. "He lives with his mother, and they’re poor. There are two kinds of poverty as you know, the poverty of the man who sells one or two horses out of his racing stud, and stops playing bridge if the points are more than half-a-crown a hundred, and the poverty which slowly starves itself to death to keep inviolate the terraces and gardens and bedchambers which Royalty has—honoured with its presence." He stopped to cut and light another cigar; he was a connoisseur in cigars, the bill for which was paid by other men. "The last is the kind of poverty the Farquharsons could tell you all about—if they told anybody anything." "Poor souls! And, meantime, this all runs to waste. The timber’s excellent—why don’t they sell it? Does Kilmaurs know anything about it all? I thought Scotch people prided themselves on hanging together. The clan’s rich enough. Why can’t somebody buy——" The elder man interrupted with a laugh. "Buy Glune! Mrs. Farquharson would starve first. Probably will. She’s got the old Covenanter blood in her veins. It leaves taints. The elder son—did you ever hear how Douglas Farquharson died?" He paused significantly. Cummings hesitated. "Something about it; not a pretty story." Brand shrugged his shoulders. "Suicide is seldom artistic. Douglas was always a bungler; he tried several means before he was successful. Mrs. Farquharson turned off the whole staff of servants and labourers on the estate (with the exception of her own old nurse, who had lived with her since childhood) on the day of the funeral. Everything that could be sold with decency was sold; everything, that is to say, that could be taken from the house by night. To the best of my belief neither friend nor relation has been inside Glune since, nor is Richard allowed outside the gates, except to go to the kirk on Sunday. You know how entertaining that is—black gown, tuning fork, and paraphrases—damnation measured out by the square yard. A cheerful outlook for a lad, isn’t it?"