"Nothing particular. There isn’t any romance or tragedy--or anything. She was simply living with an old servant of Achree and getting very sick of it. She would have come home soon, anyway." "Did she seem glad to see you?" "Isla doesn’t say much at any time. But, yes--I think she was glad. Have you seen anything of Mackinnon at Achree, Kitty?" "Why, yes. I’ve seen him every day. He spends the most of his time there, and I think it’s going to be a match between him and Vivien." The colour rose a little in Drummond’s cheeks. "I should have thought that she would have had enough of matrimony after her experience," he observed drily. "I should have thought so, too, Neil. And at first I was angry at Malcolm, thinking he was only after her money. But now anybody can see that he cares. I wonder how long it will be before we hear the news, and what Isla will say." Drummond had got fresh food for reflection. Knowing what he did of Malcolm Mackinnon, he wondered just how much or how little the Rosmeads guessed. It was a certain fact that had they known the whole truth about Malcolm Mackinnon he never would have been permitted so much intimacy at Achree. But the thought uppermost in Neil’s mind was an unholy joy that caissons, and silt, and other queer things, as Kitty put it, were keeping Peter Rosmead safely out of the way at the bottom of the Delaware River. He would not have minded much though he had never come up again. CHAPTER XXVI THE LURE OF VIVIEN Six weeks later, on a snowy January day, Neil Drummond rode one of his big roans to the Lodge of Creagh, where he had a luncheon appointment with Malcolm Mackinnon. It was one o’clock when he breasted the last bit of rising ground and beheld in front of him the little house standing sheer on the edge of the Moor of Silence, its bleak outline silhouetted against the clear grey of the sky. The smell of Margaret Maclaren’s baked meats was in his nostrils as he turned in at the gate, whetting the appetite he had gained in his long ride from Garrion. Neil never looked better than when astride a horse, and he was the best judge of horse-flesh in all the Glen. In fact, that was his one extravagance. He was looking particularly well that day. There was an air of buoyancy about him which would not be repressed. He had whistled and sung all the way from Balquhidder and had given Pride of Garrion her head in a way which that damsel particularly liked and in which she had seldom before been indulged. Her sleek sides were wet with foam as she ran quivering to the door, tossing her pretty head, the breath coming fast in her delicate nostrils, life brimming over in every pore and muscle. Malcolm, who had been watching, opened the door immediately, bade him good day, and in a word expressed his pleasure at sight of him.