Merton noted these words, which he thought curious and obscure. 'Your case interests me deeply,' he said, 'and shall receive my very best attention. You perceive, of course, that it is a difficult case, Mr. Logan's character and tenacity being what you describe. I must make careful inquiries, and shall inform you of progress. You wish to see this engagement ended?' 'And the lad on with a lass of his rank,' said the marquis. 'Probably that will follow quickly on the close of his present affection. It usually does in our experience,' said Merton, adding, 'Am I to write to you at your London address?' 'No, sir; these London hotels would ruin the cunzie' (the Mint). Merton wondered whether the Cunzie was the title of some wealthy Scotch peer. 'And I'm off for Kirkburn by the night express. Here's wishing luck,' and the old sinner finished the brandy. 'May I call a cab for you--it still rains?' 'No, no, I'll travel,' by which the economical peer meant that he would walk. He then shook Merton by the hand, and hobbled downstairs attended by his adviser. 'Did Mr. Logan call?' Merton asked the office boy when the marquis had trotted off. 'Yes, sir; he said you would find him at the club.' 'Call a hansom,' said Merton, 'and put up the notice, "out."' He drove to the club, where he found Logan ordering luncheon. 'Hullo, shall we lunch together?' Logan asked. 'Not yet: I want to speak to you.' 'Nothing gone wrong? Why did you shut me out of the office?' 'Where can we talk without being disturbed?' 'Try the smoking-room on the top storey,' said Logan, 'Nobody will have climbed so high so early.' They made the ascent, and found the room vacant: the windows looked out over swirling smoke and trees tossing in a wind of early spring. 'Quiet enough,' said Logan, taking an arm-chair. 'Now out with it! You make me quite nervous.' 'A client has come with what looks a promising piece of business. We are to disentangle--' 'A royal duke?' 'No. _You_!' 'A practical joke,' said Logan. 'Somebody pulling your leg, as people say, a most idiotic way of speaking. What sort of client was he, or she? We'll be even with them.' 'The client's card is here,' said Merton, and he handed to Logan that of the Marquis of Restalrig. 'You never saw him before; are you sure it was the man?' asked Logan, staggered in his scepticism. 'A very good imitation. Dressed like a farmer at a funeral. Talked like all the kailyards. Snuffed, and asked for brandy, and went and came, walking, in this weather.' 'By Jove, it is my venerated cousin. And he had heard about me and Miss ---' 'He was quite well informed.' Logan looked very grave. He rose and stared out of the window into the mist. Then he came back, and stood beside Merton's chair. He spoke in a low voice: 'This can only mean one thing.' 'Only that one thing,' said Merton, dropping his own voice. 'What did you say to him?'