It was an embarrassing moment for Mr. Lindsay when he stepped up to his son after the acquittal was pronounced. They were both glad that a little crowd surrounded them, so that anything like conversation was impossible. Once only was the matter referred to after that day. ‘I did you an injustice, Alec,’ said the old man gravely; ‘but the facts were sadly against you at the time.’ ‘No doubt they were, father,’ answered his son. And nothing more was said. It was pleasant for Alec to see the glad light in his sister’s eyes; to feel the warm grasp of Blake’s hand, and Cameron’s grip on his shoulder; to hear Sophy Meredith’s exclamation, ‘I knew all along it was not your fault!’ And yet, somehow, these sights and sounds seemed far away. It was almost as if he were walking in a dream, as if his real self were absent, as if he were as much alone all the time as he had been in his cell. When the little group of friends reached the lobby of the court, they found MacGowan waiting there. He came forward, and offered Alec his hand with much affability. ‘We put the snecker on him that time, eh, Maister Lindsay?’ he asked, with a proud smile. ‘You certainly did, MacGowan. But how was it that you did not turn up before?’ For answer MacGowan began to relate his several interviews with Beattie, which he described with great satisfaction. ‘He thocht he had me, when he bade me bring the ticket for the passage, and let him see ’t. But I jist waited aboot the door o’ the shippin’ office till a big Irishman turned up, and he agreed to lend me his ticket for ten minutes for the price of a bottle of whisky. He was waitin’ roon’ the corner when I gaed up to Maister Beattie, and I said I had cheinged my name for ma mither’s, at which he was vastly pleased.’ ‘But I thought you said he saw you off,’ put in Cameron. ‘So he did. But I gied him the slip. I saw that before the steamer could get awa’, she had to gang through the dock-gates, awa’ at the tither side o’ the docks. So, as she was slippin’ through, I jist whummled ower the side o’ the boat, an’ landed on the quay. It wasna muckle o’ a jump; an’ as it was in the gloamin’, my freen Maister Beattie never saw ’t. Then I awa’ to a sma’ public doon by there; an’ there I stoppit.’ ‘And drank a deal more than was good for you, and ran through all your money, and finally took ill,’ said Cameron, drawing the hero aside. ‘Something like it. I kent naething aboot the hole they had pitten Maister Lindsay in, till I took up the paper the day, and saw that the trial was expeckit to come on. Ye see that big man,’ he added suddenly, pointing to an official with his stave of office. ‘It was fun to hear him shoutin’ out, “Wull-i-am Beattie!” wi’ a’ his pith, when Wulliam Beattie had gien them leg-bail a quarter o’ an ’oor before.’ ‘How did you know that?’ MacGowan glanced round before he answered, and then put his hand to his mouth, saying in a loud whisper: ‘I say him slippin’ awa’ as I came in.’