“None of importance. Though I did find a thing on the footpath that runs above the ‘Long Man,’ near where the crime was committed—a thing I felt it my duty to show to the law officers and was laughed at for my pains.... I have it here somewhere.” And the painter turned to a small, carved press in a corner where stood two or three fishing-rods in company with a musket and a birding-piece. “What kind o’ thing, Pym?” inquired Sir Hector. “A snuff-box,” answered the painter, opening a drawer and turning over a collection of small fossils, flint arrow-heads, and the like. “A gowd snuff-box, Pym?” “Nay, ’twas of horn—a poor thing! Ah, here ’tis!” And he held out a clumsy horn snuff-box of battered and villainous appearance. Sir John took it, turned it this way and that, opened and sniffed delicately at its empty interior, and finally carrying it to the light, fell to studying it anew. “Now, Pym man,” said Sir Hector, “if yon had been gold or enamel, or even siller, it might perchance justify your suspeecions; but whaur’s the man o’ quality would carry a thing the like o’ that?” “There, sir,” answered the painter dogmatically, “there I take issue with ye. If that box be evidence, which I deny, mark ye—’tis precisely the kind o’ thing your man o’ quality would purposefully leave that its very poverty might set inquiring minds on a false scent. I further maintain, sir, that——” “Nay, Sir Hector,” laughed Mistress Pym, leaning in at the open lattice at this moment, her hands full of fresh-gathered flowers, “do but take father’s side o’ the question and he will immediately take yours to keep the argument a-going.” “Child,” quoth the painter, sternly grim, “I smell your bread a-burning!” “Sir,” she answered, throwing a flower at him, “thou’rt mighty sharp-nosed this morning, for ’tis not yet in the oven!” “An’ there’s for ye, man!” chuckled Sir Hector as she jingled away once more. “Mr. Pym, would you pray lend me this box for a few days?” inquired Sir John. “Nay, take it, sir,” answered the painter, “if the sorry thing hath any interest for you, take it and welcome.” Murmuring his thanks, Sir John slipped it into his pocket; and shortly after, bidding Mr. Pym adieu, they left him to his gardening. “Yon Pym-lassie,” quoth Sir Hector as they walked, “is like a bagpipes——” “Never in the world, Hector!” “Aye, John; she’s sweet as a bagpipes, whilk, as a’ the warld kens, is the sweetest and maist soothin’ of a’ instruments! ’Tis a muckle woefu’ wight Pym’ll be if ever she marries, I’m thinkin’! But, Johnnie, why for did ye want yon snuff-box?” “Because I think I can find the man who lost it.” “Losh, man! An’ suppose ye can, what then?” “Why then, Hector, I think my Lord Sayle will cease from hunting smugglers.” “Eh? Sayle? Man, what d’ye mean?” “Time will show——” “Aye, but meanwhile, John, d’ye mean to say ye think——” “That a mug of Mr. Bunkle’s gumboo will go very happily with Mistress Pym’s excellent wine, so——”