The man nodded. "What is your name?" asked Cameron. "My name is Donald Grant, and I am from Glenmoriston," said the other. "A Grant," sniffed Cameron; "well, well, we canna all be Camerons." He drew up his legs and sat with his elbows on his knees. "What is your news?" he asked. "Is it of the Prince?" "Partly--and partly not." "That's a braw answer," snapped Cameron. "It's unco like maybe, and maybe no. Ye're muckle confidential, you Grants." "I have a letter," said he, "from one well known to ye--Rob Fraser." "Rob Fraser! I ken nane o' that name. Oh, bide a wee! Ye mean a laddie?" Grant nodded. "That same," he replied. Cameron drew in a cloud of tobacco and sent it floating in rings above his head. "Yon's a bonny one," he murmured, and then, cocking an eye upon the other. "Where's the letter?" Grant drew it carefully from his stocking. Cameron read: "This to tell you that the treasure is discovered, and that unless it be put in a safe place all will be lost. The bearer of this letter can be trusted. Come to me at a place that this man will show you, for the Prince is with me, and is in need of you and some gold. ROB FRASER." "Humph!" grunted Cameron. Then he took to reading it again, weighing every word. Once he stared for a very long time at the messenger, but the followers of Muckle John were chosen carefully. The expression of Grant's bearded face displayed no emotion whatever. Presently, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he pursed his lips, and handing the letter to Murray, frowned and pulled at one ear, humming and keeping time with his foot--the very picture of a man wanting to go all ways at one and the same time. "It looks genuine enough," he said grudgingly in Murray's ear, "but I've no knowledge of the laddie's writing." "Who is Rob Fraser?" asked Murray with shut eyes. "I had near forgot myself; but he was useful that night on the shore of Arkaig. Maybe ye tak' my meaning?" Saying which he winked and looked meaningly at the other. "Then what does he ken of where the stuff lies?" whispered Murray. "About as much as the trout in the burn, which maybe is none so little after all." And again he winked and laughed. "Will ye go, Archie?" "I canna just say. It looks uncommon like a trap, and yet..." He broke off suddenly and addressed the man Grant. "What is this boy like?" he asked sharply. "He is short and open-faced, and is dressed in the Fraser tartan. He is dark and speaks good Gaelic." "That's Rob sure enough. Where has he been since he left Lochaber?" "He was captured and laid in Fort Augustus, but he has escaped and is now Glenmoriston way." "Glenmoriston is a far cry," said Cameron. "Did he send no word beside this?" "He said, 'There's a muirfowl snared,' though I did not take his meaning."