"Bide a wee," said the unwinking Dougal. "I'm no' going to let ye into this business till I ken that ye'll help. It's a far bigger job than I thought. There's more in it than Lean and Spittal. There's the big man that keeps the public--Dobson, they ca' him. He's a Namerican, which looks bad. And there's two-three tinklers campin' down in the Garple Dean. They're in it, for Dobson was colloguin' wi' them a' mornin'. When I seen ye, I thought ye were more o' the gang, till I mindit that one o' ye was auld McCunn that has the shop in Mearns Street. I seen that ye didn't like the look o' Lean, and I followed ye here, for I was thinkin' I needit help." Heritage plucked Dougal by the shoulder and lifted him to his feet. "For God's sake, boy," he cried, "tell us what you know!" "Will ye help?" "Of course, you little fool." "Then swear," said the ritualist. From a grimy wallet he extracted a limp little volume which proved to be a damaged copy of a work entitled _Sacred Songs and Solos_. "Here! Take that in your right hand and put your left hand on my pole, and say after me, 'I swear no' to blab what is telled me in secret and to be swift and sure in obeyin' orders, s'help me God!' Syne kiss the bookie." Dickson at first refused, declaring it was all havers, but Heritage's docility persuaded him to follow suit. The two were sworn. "Now," said Heritage. Dougal squatted again on the hearth-rug, and gathered the eyes of his audience. He was enjoying himself. "This day," he said slowly, "I got inside the Hoose." "Stout fellow," said Heritage; "and what did you find there?" "I got inside that Hoose, but it wasn't once or twice I tried. I found a corner where I was out o' sight o' anybody unless they had come there seekin' me, and I sklimmed up a rone pipe, but a' the windies were lockit and I verra near broke my neck. Syne I tried the roof, and a sore sklim I had, but when I got there there were no skylights. At the end I got in by the coal-hole. That's why ye're maybe thinkin' I'm no' very clean." Heritage's patience was nearly exhausted. "I don't want to hear how you got in. What did you find, you little devil?" "Inside the Hoose," said Dougal slowly (and there was a melancholy sense of anti-climax in his voice, as of one who had hoped to speak of gold and jewels and armed men)--"inside that Hoose there's nothing but two women." Heritage sat down before him with a stern face. "Describe them," he commanded. "One o' them is dead auld, as auld as the wife here. She didn't look to me very right in the head." "And the other?" "Oh, just a lassie." "What was she like?" Dougal seemed to be searching for adequate words. "She is ..." he began. Then a popular song gave him inspiration. "She's pure as the lully in the dell!"