Stumbling blindly forward towards the entrance of the building, he collided with a figure that suddenly seemed to rise from the ground, and for a moment his heart stood still, but his fears were quickly dissipated by the unmistakable sound of a human voice. "Who is that?" someone inquired in tremulous tones. "Oh, sir, are you one of the revellers?" "One of the revellers?" Ronan replied. "It's an ill night for any revelling. What do you mean?" "I mean, are you one of the young men going to the fancy dress dance at the Spelkin Towers," the voice responded. "But your accent tells me you are not; you don't belong to these parts. You are Irish." "That is truly said," Ronan answered. "My home is in Dublin, and it's the first time I have set foot on Dumfries soil, and I'll stake every penny in my purse it will be the last. I'm bound for Lockerbie, but I'm thinking it will be the early hours of the morning before I get there." "For Lockerbie," the voice replied. "Why that's a distance of about twenty miles. It's a straight road, however, and you pass the Spelkin Towers on the way. It stands in a clump of trees about a hundred yards back from the road, on this side of it, about three miles from here. If there were a moon you would easily recognise the place by the big white gate leading directly to it." "So I might, but why waste my time and your breath. The Spelkins, or whatever you call it, has naught to do with me. I'm bound for Lockerbie, I tell you, and as the rain seems to be abating I intend moving on again." "Sir," the woman pleaded, "I pray you stay a few moments and listen to what I have to say. A gentleman is going to the revels to-night for whom I have a letter of the utmost importance. His name is Dunloe--Mr Robert Dunloe of Annan. He is due at the Towers at eight o'clock, and should surely be passing here almost at this very moment. But, sir, I durst not wait for him any longer, as I have an aged mother at home who has been taken suddenly and violently ill. For mercy's sake I beg of you to wait and give him the letter in my stead." "Give him the letter in your stead!" Ronan ejaculated. "Why, I may never see him--indeed, the odds are a thousand to one I never shall. I'm in a hurry, too. I can't stay hanging around here all night. Besides, how should I know him?" "He's dressed as a jester," the woman answered, "and if the wind is not blowing too strong you'll hear the sound of his bells. He's sure to be coming by very soon. Oh, sir, do me this favour, I pray you." As she spoke the rain ceased and the moon, suddenly appearing from behind a bank of clouds, revealed her face. It was startlingly white, and in a strange, elfish kind of way, beautiful. Ronan gazed at it in astonishment, it was altogether so different from the face he had pictured from the voice, and as he stared down into the big, black eyes raised pleadingly to his, he felt curiously fascinated, and all idea of resistance at once departed.