Dickson groaned. What had become of his dream of idylls, his gentle bookish romance? Vanished before a reality which smacked horribly of crude melodrama and possibly of sordid crime. His gorge rose at the picture, but a thought troubled him. Perhaps all romance in its hour of happening was rough and ugly like this, and only shone rosy in the retrospect. Was he being false to his deepest faith? "Let's have Mrs. Morran in," he ventured. "She's a wise old body and I'd like to hear her opinion of this business. We'll get common sense from her." "I don't object," said Heritage. "But no amount of common sense will change my mind." Their hostess forestalled them by returning at that moment to the kitchen. "We want your advice, mistress," Dickson told her, and accordingly, like a barrister with a client, she seated herself carefully in the big easy chair, found and adjusted her spectacles, and waited with hands folded on her lap to hear the business. Dickson narrated their pre-supper doings, and gave a sketch of Dougal's evidence. His exposition was cautious and colourless, and without conviction. He seemed to expect a robust incredulity in his hearer. Mrs. Morran listened with the gravity of one in church. When Dickson finished she seemed to meditate. "There's no blagyird trick that would surprise me in thae new folk. What's that ye ca' them--Lean and Spittal? Eppie Home threepit to me they were furriners and these are no furrin names." "What I want to hear from you, Mrs. Morran," said Dickson impressively, "is whether you think there's anything in that boy's story?" "I think it's maist likely true. He's a terrible impident callant, but he's no' a leear." "Then you think that a gang of ruffians have got two lone women shut up in that House for their own purposes?" "I wadna wonder." "But it's ridiculous! This is a Christian and law-abiding country. What would the police say?" "They never troubled Dalquharter muckle. There's no' a polisman nearer than Knockraw--yin Johnnie Trummle, and he's as useless as a frostit tattie." "The wiselike thing, as I think," said Dickson, "would be to turn the Procurator-Fiscal on to the job. It's his business, no' ours." "Weel, I wadna say but ye're richt," said the lady. "What would you do if you were us?" Dickson's tone was subtly confidential. "My friend here wants to get into the House the morn with that red-haired laddie to satisfy himself about the facts. I say no. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say, and if you think the beasts are mad report to the authorities. What would you do yourself?" "If I were you," came the emphatic reply, "I would tak' the first train hame the morn, and when I got hame I wad bide there. Ye're a dacent body, but ye're no' the kind to be traivellin' the roads." "And if you were me?" Heritage asked with his queer crooked smile.