"Ay," said Toddle dryly, "he'll be wanting to put an end to _her_ next, after killing his faither." "Killing his faither?" said the baker, with a quick look. "What do you mean?" "Mean? Ou, I just mean what the doctor says! Gourlay was that mad at the drucken young swine that he got the 'plexies, fell aff the ladder, and felled himsell deid! That's what I mean, no less!" said Toddle, nettled at the sharp question. "Ay, man! That accounts for't," said Tam Wylie. "It did seem queer Gourlay's dying the verra nicht the prodigal cam hame. He was a heavy man too; he would come down with an infernal thud. It seems uncanny, though, it seems uncanny." "Strange!" murmured another; and they looked at each other in silent wonder. "But will this be true, think ye?" said Brodie--"about the horrors, I mean. _Did_ he throw the tumbler at his mother?" "Lord, it's true!" said Sandy Toddle. "I gaed into the kitchen on purpose to make sure o' the matter with my own eyes. I let on I wanted to borrow auld Gourlay's keyhole saw. I can tell ye he had a' his orders--his tool-chest's the finest I ever saw in my life! I mean to bid for some o' yon when the rowp comes. Weel, as I was saying, I let on I wanted the wee saw, and went into the kitchen one end's errand. The tumbler (Johnny Coe says it was a bottle, however; but I'm no avised o' that--I speired Webster's wife, and I think my details are correct)--the tumbler went flying past his mother, and smashed the face o' the eight-day. It happened about the mid-hour o' the day. The clock had stoppit, I observed, at three and a half minutes to the twelve." "Hi!" cried the Deacon, "it'th a pity auld Gourlay wathna alive thith day!" "Faith, ay," cried Wylie. "_He_ would have sorted him; _he_ would have trimmed the young ruffian!" "No doubt," said the Deacon gravely--"no doubt. But it wath scarcely that I wath thinking of. Yah!" he grinned, "thith would have been a thlap in the face till him!" Wylie looked at him for a while with a white scunner in his face. He wore the musing and disgusted look of a man whose wounded mind retires within itself to brood over a sight of unnatural cruelty. The Deacon grew uncomfortable beneath his sideward, estimating eye. "Deacon Allardyce, your heart's black-rotten," he said at last. The Deacon blinked and was silent. Tam had summed him up. There was no appeal. * * * * * "John dear," said his mother that evening, "we'll take the big sofa into our bedroom, and make up a grand bed for ye, and then we'll be company to one another. Eh, dear?" she pleaded. "Winna that be a fine way? When you have Janet and me beside you, you winna be feared o' ainything coming near you. You should gang to bed early, dear. A sleep would restore your mind." "I don't mean to go to bed," he said slowly. He spoke staringly, with the same fixity in his voice and gaze. There was neither rise nor fall in his voice, only a dull level of intensity.