Logan lighted the smoking-room fire, thrust the poker into it, and began tying hard knots in a length of cord, all this silently. His brows were knit, his lips were set, in his eye shone the wild light of the blood of Restalrig. Bude and Mr. Macrae looked on aghast. 'What _are_ you about?' asked Merton. 'There are methods of extracting information from reluctant witnesses,' snarled Logan. 'Oh, bosh!' said Merton. 'Mr. Macrae cannot permit you to revive your ancestral proceedings.' Logan threw down his knotted cord. 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Macrae,' he said, 'but if I had that dog in my house of Kirkburn--' he then went out. 'Lord Fastcastle is a little moved,' said Merton. 'He comes of a wild stock, but I never saw him like this.' Mr. Macrae allowed that the circumstances were unusual. A horrible thought occurred to Merton. 'Mr. Macrae,' he exclaimed, 'may I speak to you privately? Bude, I dare say, will be kind enough to remain with that person.' Mr. Macrae followed Merton into the billiard-room. 'My dear sir,' said the pallid Merton, 'Logan and I have made a terrible blunder! We never doubted that, if we caught any one, our captive would be Blake. I do not deny that this man is his accomplice, but we have literally no proof. He may persist, if taken before a magistrate, that he is Gianesi. He may say that, being in your employment as an electrician, he naturally entered the smoking-room when the electric bell rang. He can easily account for his possession of a revolver, in a place where a mysterious crime has just been committed. As to the Highland costume, he may urge that, like many Southrons, he had bought it to wear on a Highland tour, and was trying it on. How can you keep him? You have no longer the right of Pit and Gallows. Before what magistrate can you take him, and where? The sheriff-substitute may be at Golspie, or Tongue, or Dingwall, or I don't know where. What can we do? What have we against the man? "Loitering with intent"? And here Logan and I have knocked him down, and tied him up, and Logan wanted to torture him.' 'Dear Mr. Merton,' replied Mr. Macrae, with paternal tenderness, 'you are overwrought. You have not slept all night. I must insist that you go to bed, and do not rise till you are called. The man is certainly guilty of conspiracy, that will be proved when the real Gianesi comes to hand. If not, I do not doubt that I can secure his silence. You forget the power of money. Make yourself easy, go to sleep; meanwhile I must re-establish communications. Good-night, golden slumbers!' He wrung Merton's hand, and left him admiring the calm resolution of one whose conversation, 'in the mad pride of intellectuality,' he had recently despised. The millionaire, Merton felt, was worthy to be his daughter's father.