At this amazing falsehood Dickson started, and the man observed his surprise. The eyes were turned on him like a searchlight. They roused antagonism in his peaceful soul, and with that antagonism came an impulse to back up the Poet. "Ay," he said, "she's my Auntie Phemie, my mother's half-sister." The man turned on Heritage. "Where are ye for the day?" "Auchenlochan," said Dickson hastily. He was still determined to shake the dust of Dalquharter from his feet. The innkeeper sensibly brightened. "Well, ye'll have a fine walk. I must go in and see about my own breakfast. Good day to ye, gentlemen." "That," said Heritage as they entered the village street again, "is the first step in camouflage, to put the enemy off his guard." "It was an abominable lie," said Dickson crossly. "Not at all. It was a necessary and proper _ruse de guerre_. It explained why we spent the night here, and now Dobson and his friends can get about their day's work with an easy mind. Their suspicions are temporarily allayed, and that will make our job easier." "I'm not coming with you." "I never said you were. By 'we' I refer to myself and the red-headed boy." "Mistress, you're my auntie," Dickson informed Mrs. Morran as she set the porridge on the table. "This gentleman has just been telling the man at the inn that you're my Auntie Phemie." For a second their hostess looked bewildered. Then the corners of her prim mouth moved upwards in a slow smile. "I see," she said. "Weel, maybe it was weel done. But if ye're my nevoy ye'll hae to keep up my credit, for we're a bauld and siccar lot." Half an hour later there was a furious dissension when Dickson attempted to pay for the night's entertainment. Mrs. Morran would have none of it. "Ye're no' awa' yet," she said tartly, and the matter was complicated by Heritage's refusal to take part in the debate. He stood aside and grinned, till Dickson in despair returned his note-case to his pocket, murmuring darkly that "he would send it from Glasgow."