"What else can I do?" the oculist replied. "I can't stop up here for ever, much as I should prefer to stay until I had done something for my patient." "You have my sympathy, Mr. Ewart," said Hilderman in a friendly voice. "It is a terrible blow for you all. I fervently hope that something may yet be done for the poor young lady." "I hope so too," I answered, with a heavy sigh, but the sigh was merely a convincing response to the lead Garnesk had given me, for, as a matter of fact, I was quite certain that we had found the basis of complete cure. "Yes," Hilderman muttered, as if thinking aloud, "it is a very terrible and strange affair altogether. Have you had any news about the dog?" "None whatever," I replied, this time with perfect truth. "Surely you must suspect somebody, though," the American urged. "It is a very sparsely populated neighbourhood, you know." "We can't actually suspect anybody, nevertheless," said I. "On the one hand, it may have been an ordinary, uninteresting thief who stole the dog with a view to selling him again. On the other hand----" "Well," said Hilderman with interest, as I paused, "on the other hand?" "It may have been someone who had other reasons for stealing him," I concluded. "I don't quite follow you." "Ewart means," said Garnesk, cutting in eagerly, evidently fearing that I was about to make some indiscreet disclosure of our suspicions, though I had not the slightest intention of doing so, "Ewart means that it may have been someone who regarded the dog as a personal enemy. Miss McLeod informs us that there was a man in the hills, ostensibly a crofter, who disliked Sholto, quite unreasonably. He drove the dog away from his croft and was very rude to Miss McLeod about it. She suspected an illicit still, and thought the fellow was afraid Sholto might nose out his secret and give the show away." "Ah!" said Hilderman. "An illicit still, eh! Where was this still, or, rather, where was the croft?" I remembered that Myra had told us it was somewhere up Suardalan way, above Tor Beag, and I was just about to explain, when I felt my friend's boot knock sharply against my ankle. Taking this as a hint and not an accident, I promptly lied. "It was miles away," I announced readily, "away up on The Saddle. Miss McLeod wanders pretty far afield with Sholto at times." "Indeed," said the American, "I should think that might be quite a likely explanation, and rather a suitable place for a still, too. I climbed The Saddle some months ago with an enthusiastic friend of mine. We went by water to Invershiel, and then drove up the Glen. I shouldn't like to walk from Invermalluch and back; there are several mountains in between, and surely there is no road."