There Captain Duff and Captain Ferguson were awaiting them. And on the table lay the strong box over which Lovat had pored so many hours on the night of Culloden at Gortuleg. Lovat was allowed to seat himself, and having done so appeared oblivious to the proceedings, and seemed to doze. In the box were many articles of personal value to him and these the searchers passed over. But near to the bottom of the box was a bundle of papers, and these they grabbed at and began to read. At that point Lovat stirred and looking up remarked: "You will find nothing treasonable there..." watching them with a half smile on his lips. But of a sudden he paled and leant forward. In the hand of Captain Strange was a letter, in the Master of Lovat's writing. In some manner that fatal communication had been overlooked. "Will you let me look at that letter?" asked the old man smoothly. Strange hesitated and saw the tension in his eyes. "I fear," he replied, "this must remain in the hands of the Government." Lovat sank into his chair and shook his great white head in a melancholy way. "I am too old," he said hardly above his breath. "My lord," said Strange, "this letter is incriminating in the highest degree. Have you recollected yet whether it was Muckle John you met upon the island on Loch Morar?" Lovat put one fat hand to his ear. "I cannot catch what you say," he remarked blandly. Strange repeated his question. "I am sorry," said Lovat, "but at my age deafness is very prevalent." And so in due course they took him to Fort William, carrying him in a litter, finding him very querulous over the bumpy places, and apt to gibe at them in Latin to his own cynical pleasure and their vague annoyance. CHAPTER XXII MISS MACPHERSON AND THE DUKE On the brow of the high ground close to Fort Augustus there sat a solitary man wrapped to his nose in a great Highland plaid. Night was falling and a thin drizzle of rain coming out of the west. The black outline of hills closed about the Fort as though to overwhelm it. No sound there was but the weary dripping of rain and the noise of running water over stones. The figure on the mist-ridden hill-side never moved, but remained as lifeless as the crag behind him--part as it were of the tragic twilight. Down in the Fort lights flickered here and there, and a horseman plunged out of the obscure light and entered the gates. The man upon the hill never raised his head but watched him for all that, the rain pouring from his bonnet to his plaid and running in little streams upon the heather. A bugle sounded down below. Following hard on its muffled notes came the clanging of the gates. The Fort was closed for the night.