"It's the first time I ever h'ard of onybody doin' the like," he said at last. "The landin' stage is awa' at the ether side o' the p'int; it's aye there they land. There's nae a man in a' this glen would come in here, unless it whar for some special reason. It's no' a vary grand place tae bring a boat in. The rocks are narrow at the mouth." "Do strangers often come to these parts?" "There are no strangers come to Inverashiel," said the keeper. "The high road runs at the ether side o' the loch through Crianan, and the tramps and motors go over it, but never hae I known one o' that kind on our shore." Gimblet observed with some amusement that the man spoke of motors and tramps as of varieties of the same breed; but all he said was: "Could you make inquiries as to whether anyone on the estate happens to have brought a boat in here during the last week? I should be glad if you could do so without mentioning my name, or letting anyone think it is important." He felt he could trust the discretion of this taciturn Highlander. "I'll that, sir," was the reply. And Gimblet could see, in spite of the man's unchanging countenance, that he was pleased at this mark of confidence in him. "Could you take me to the head gardener's house?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. "I should rather like a talk with him." McGregor conducted him down the road to the lodge. "It's in here whar Angus Malcolm lives," he remarked laconically. "Good evening, sir." He turned and strode away over the hillside, and Gimblet knocked at the door. It was opened by the gardener, and he had a glimpse through the open doorway of a family at tea. "I'm sorry I disturbed you," he said. "I will look in again another day. Lord Ashiel referred me to you for the name of a rose I asked about, but it will do to-morrow." The gardener assured him that his tea could wait, but Gimblet would not detain him. "I shall no doubt see you up in the garden to-morrow," he said. "The roses in that long bed outside the library are very fine, and I am interested in their culture. I wonder they do so well in this peaty soil." "Na fie, man, they get on splendid here," said Malcolm. He liked nothing better than to talk about his flowers, but, being a Highlander, resented any suggestion that his native earth was not the best possible for no matter what purpose. "We just gie them a good dressin' doon wie manure ilka year." "Do you use any patent fertilizer?" Gimblet asked. "Oh, just a clean oot wie a grain o' basic slag noo and than," said the gardener. "And I just gie them some lime ilka time I think the ground is needin' it." "Well, the result is very good," said the detective. "By the way, have you been working on that bed lately? I picked this up among the violas. Did you happen to drop it?" He took from his pocket a small paper notebook, and held it out interrogatively.