The rain held off as she splashed down the road, and, at the bridge, the North Lour ran hard and heavy under her; the beeches round Whanland House were swaying their upper branches when she passed, as seaweeds sway in a pool at the in-running tide. She drove straight to the Black Horse in the High Street, for, behind the inn-yard, was a tumbledown shanty, where carriers, cadgers, and such of the lower classes as went on wheels, might stable their carts when they came to the town. The grander accommodation, which had the honour of harbouring the chaises and phaetons of the gentry, was on the inner side of the wall. When she had left Rob Roy she walked to the Inspector’s house and was admitted. She was ushered straight into the Captain’s presence; he sat in his study, dressed for the road, for he had duty near Garviekirk. The expression he wore was one unusual to him. ‘I have made a discovery, Mrs. Stirk,’ he said, abruptly. ‘The letter I wrote to Miss Raeburn never reached her. She has not received it.’ Her eyes seemed to pierce him through; he turned his face away. ‘I am a good deal distressed,’ he continued--‘I did not suppose that--those one associated with--did such things.’ ‘It’s Barclay!’ exclaimed Granny. ‘We cannot be quite certain,’ he went on, ‘so the less we say about it the better. He was asked to carry it to Fullarton and I have reason to know that it never reached Miss Raeburn. I have spoken quite freely to you; as you have identified yourself with this affair, I felt I should not keep anything back from you. I am sick at heart, Mrs. Stirk--sick at heart.’ His expression was blurred by a dull suffering. ‘Fegs! ye needna fash about the likes o’ him, sir! I warrant ye it’s no the first clortie[1] job he’s done!’ [1] Dirty. ‘It is painful,’ said he. There was more than the Queen of the Cadgers could fathom in the honest man’s trouble; more lying on his heart, as he drove away down the street, than she, looking after him, could guess. The sordid knowledge of his wife’s nature had been with him for years, shut behind bars through which he would not glance, like some ignoble Caliban. That morning he had been forced to look the hateful thing in the face. A letter had come to Mrs. Somerville from Cecilia, directing her to the private entrance at Morphie Kirk. ‘I hope Captain Somerville is well,’ was its conclusion; ‘with the exception of a note of congratulation from Mr. Barclay I have heard nothing of anyone at Kaims since I left Fullarton.’ Mrs. Somerville had read it aloud, stopping suddenly in the middle of the last sentence, remembering Barclay’s semi-jocular suggestion of delaying the letter, and turned scarlet. She was apt, in difficulties, to lose her head. ‘I’m sure it is no fault of Mr. Barclay’s!’ she exclaimed. ‘I told him how urgent it was.’ ‘_What?_’ exclaimed the Inspector, turning in his chair.