"No, no; George Morris, the solicitor—his wife and I are very great friends—and I know he would do a great deal for me. Very well; he must get to know simply everything about this old man—his whole history—and if it turns out to be what I imagine, then some of us will have to go to Vin and tell him the truth. It won’t be a pleasant duty; but duty never is pleasant. I know I shall be called a traitor for my share in it. Here is Vin appealing to me to be his friend—as if I were not his friend!—begging me to come and take this solitary and friendless girl by the hand, and all the rest of it; and instead of that I go behind his back and try to find out what will destroy his youthful romance for ever. But it’s got to be done," said the young widow, with a sigh. "It will be a wrench at first; then six months’ despair; and a life-time of thankfulness thereafter. And of course I must give George Morris all the help I can. He must make enquiries, for one thing, at the office of the _Edinburgh Chronicle_: I remember at Henley the old gentleman spoke of the proprietor as a friend of his. Then the man you know in New York, who gave Mr. Bethune a letter of introduction to you: what is his name and address?" "Oh, no," said Lord Musselburgh, shrinking back, as it were. "No; I don’t want to take part in it. Of course, you may be acting quite rightly; no doubt you are acting entirely in Vin’s interests; but—but I would rather have nothing to do with it." "And yet you call yourself Vin’s friend! Come, tell me!" she said, coaxingly. Again he refused. "Mind you, I believe I could find out for myself," she went on. "I know that he is the editor of a newspaper in New York—a Scotch newspaper: come, Lord Musselburgh, give me his name, or the name of the newspaper!" He shook his head. "No—not fair," he said. Then she stopped, and faced him, and regarded him with arch eyes. "And yet it was on this very pathway, only yesterday morning, that you swore that there was nothing in the world that you wouldn’t do for me!" "That was different," said he, with some hesitation. "I meant as regards myself. This concerns some one else." "Oh, very well," said she, and she walked on proudly. "I dare say I can find out." He touched her arm to detain her. "Have you a note-book?" he asked. She took from her pocket a combined purse and note-book; and without a word—or a smile—she pulled out the pencil. "’Hugh Anstruther, _Western Scotsman_ Office, New York,’" said he, rather shamefacedly. "There, that is all right!" she said, blithely, and she put the note-book in her pocket again. "That is as far as we can go in that matter at present; and now we can talk of something else. What is the name of this little bay?" "Little Ganovan, I believe." "And the other one we passed?" "Port Bân." "What is the legend attached to the robber’s cave up there in the rocks?" "The legend? Oh, some one told me the gardener keeps his tools in that cave."