"I’m no sure, but I think, Maister Drummond, that Agnes wass troubled apoot her. I haf been troubled mysel’. For, look you, it iss an awfu’ thing for the Glen that Miss Isla should haf peen spirited away like this. It iss not the same at all. And nopody efer speakin’ her naame or tryin’ to get her pack--that iss the worst thing of all. If you please. Maister Drummond, askin’ your pardon for my free speech----" Drummond sprang to his machine and waved his hand in parting. "Good-bye, Mrs. Maclure. I’ll bring Miss Isla back if it can be done. But keep a quiet tongue in your head--not a word to a soul." He rode off at break-neck speed and, to the great astonishment of his folk, announced that he had to leave Garrion that very night for London, having business there. Drummond slept soundly in the train, for he was young and strong, and he had had a tiring and exciting day. Arrived at Euston, he entered the hotel and made himself fit for his great quest. But after he had finished his toilet and gone through the whole menu of the table d’hote breakfast it was only half-past eight. Even an old friend may not presume to call on a lady at such an unholy hour of the morning. London had no bright welcome for the Laird of Garrion. One of the worst fogs of a particularly foggy November lay like a thick yellow pall over everything, and through its impenetrable folds weird shapes and shadows loomed, and strange, half-stifled cries troubled the air as if there were some invisible and ghostly warfare waged in the streets. "How long do you suppose it will take me to get to the Edgeware Road in this--eh?" he asked the big porter in the hall. "Ten minutes by the underground, sir," he answered. "After that, I don’t know!" Neil took the risks. About half-past ten o’clock he emerged from the underground fastness of the Edgeware Road Station and began to grope his way about for his ultimate destination. But it was a sorry business. He seemed to be wandering round in a circle, and by noon he did not know which end of the Road he was at. Then a sudden miracle, often seen in the case of a London fog, was wrought by some invisible force in the upper air. The thick veil was drawn back as if by unseen hands, a few feeble rays of wintry sunshine filtered through the gloom, and London became free and visible once more. Neil then found that he had wandered into Maida Vale, where he was totally stranded. He hailed a passing hansom and, giving the address, sat back comfortably with his cigarette, all unconscious, until he took a peep into the little mirror at the side of the cab, that his face was exceedingly grimy and that there were various smudges on his collar. Neil was not vain, but a man likes to look his best when he goes to see the girl he loves. He did what he could to remedy the defects, and was fairly satisfied with the results when the cab set him down at his destination.