'My grandson, gentlemen,' said Mrs. Bower to the detectives. Then to her grandson, she remarked, 'Hae, there's a jeely piece for you'; and Merton, munching a round of bread covered with jam, walked down the steep avenue. He knew the house he was to enter, the gardener's lodge, and also that he was to approach it by the back way, and go in at the back door. The inmates expected him and understood the scheme; presently he went out by the door into the village street, still munching at his round of bread. To such lads and lassies as hailed him in the waning light he replied gruffly, explaining that he had 'a sair hoast,' that is, a bad cough, from which he had observed that young Bower was suffering. He was soon outside of the village, and walking at top speed towards the station. Several times he paused, in shadowy corners of the hedges, and listened. There was no sound of pursuing feet. He was not being followed, but, of course, he might be dogged at the station. The enemy would have their spies there: if they had them in the village his disguise had deceived them. He ran, whenever no passer-by was in sight; through the villages he walked, whistling 'Wull ye no come back again!' He reached the station with three minutes to spare, took a third-class ticket, and went on to the platform. Several people were waiting, among them four or five rough-looking miners, probably spies. He strolled towards the end of the platform, and when the train entered, leaped into a third-class carriage which was nearly full. Turning at the door, he saw the rough customers making for the same carriage. 'Come on,' cried Merton, with a slight touch of intoxication in his voice; 'come on billies, a' freens here!' and he cast a glance of affection behind him at the other occupants of the carriage. The roughs pressed in. 'I won't have it,' cried a testy old gentleman, who was economically travelling by third-class, 'there are only three seats vacant. The rest of the train is nearly empty. Hi, guard! station-master, hi!' 'A' _freens_ here,' repeated Merton stolidly, taking his whisky bottle from his greatcoat pocket. Two of the roughs had entered, but the guard persuaded the other two that they must bestow themselves elsewhere. The old gentleman glared at Merton, who was standing up, the cork of the bottle between his teeth, as the train began to move. He staggered and fell back into his seat. 'We are na fou, we're no _that_ fou,' Merton chanted, directing his speech to the old gentleman, 'But just a wee drap in oor 'ee!' 'The curse of Scotland,' muttered the old gentleman, whether with reference to alcohol or to Robert Burns, is uncertain. 'The Curse o' Scotland,' said Merton, 'that's the nine o' diamonds. I hae the cairts on me, maybe ye'd take a hand, sir, at Beggar ma Neebour, or Catch the Ten? Ye needna be feared, a can pay gin I lose.' He dragged out his cards, and a handful of silver.