Mr. Heritage saw him afar off and waved a friendly hand. In spite of his chagrin Dickson could not but confess that he had misjudged his critic. Striding with long steps over the heather, his jacket open to the wind, his face a-glow and his capless head like a whin-bush for disorder, he cut a more wholesome and picturesque figure than in the smoking-room the night before. He seemed to be in a companionable mood, for he brandished his stick and shouted greetings. "Well met!" he cried; "I was hoping to fall in with you again. You must have thought me a pretty fair cub last night." "I did that," was the dry answer. "Well, I want to apologise. God knows what made me treat you to a university-extension lecture. I may not agree with you, but every man's entitled to his own views, and it was dashed poor form for me to start jawing you." Mr. McCunn had no gift of nursing anger, and was very susceptible to apologies. "That's all right," he murmured. "Don't mention it. I'm wondering what brought you down here, for it's off the road." "Caprice. Pure caprice. I liked the look of this butt-end of nowhere." "Same here. I've aye thought there was something terrible nice about a wee cape with a village at the neck of it and a burn each side." "Now that's interesting," said Mr. Heritage. "You're obsessed by a particular type of landscape. Ever read Freud?" Dickson shook his head. "Well, you've got an odd complex somewhere. I wonder where the key lies. Cape--woods--two rivers--moor behind. Ever been in love, Dogson?" Mr. McCunn was startled. "Love" was a word rarely mentioned in his circle except on death-beds. "I've been a married man for thirty years," he said hurriedly. "That won't do. It should have been a hopeless affair--the last sight of the lady on a spur of coast with water on three sides--that kind of thing, you know. Or it might have happened to an ancestor.... But you don't look the kind of breed for hopeless attachments. More likely some scoundrelly old Dogson long ago found sanctuary in this sort of place. Do you dream about it?" "Not exactly." "Well, I do. The queer thing is that I've got the same prepossession as you. As soon as I spotted this Cruives place on the map this morning, I saw it was what I was after. When I came in sight of it I almost shouted. I don't very often dream, but when I do that's the place I frequent. Odd, isn't it?" Mr. McCunn was deeply interested at this unexpected revelation of romance. "Maybe it's being in love," he daringly observed. The Poet demurred. "No. I'm not a connoisseur of obvious sentiment. That explanation might fit your case, but not mine. I'm pretty certain there's something hideous at the back of _my_ complex--some grim old business tucked away back in the ages. For though I'm attracted by the place, I'm frightened too!"