By this time they had reached the middle of the glen, and were within a dozen paces of Mr. Capt's secret store-house. Greatly to the valet's disgust the keeper now produced a lump of tobacco from his pocket, and commenced with his knife to carefully shred off the quantity necessary for filling his pipe; he stopped to satisfactorily complete the delicate operation, then, with great care, he lighted the little black clay cutty. The keeper got his pipe into full swing, the two men were about to proceed on their walk, but Blogg suddenly laid his hand on the valet's arm and pointed at the beech tree. "It's many a man," he said sententiously, "as would walk by that tree and see nothing particular about it," and he stared at the tree in curiosity. "Aren't you well, Muster Capt?" he said suddenly, as the expression on the valet's face attracted his attention. The valet's countenance had become of an ashen grey, and drops of perspiration stood upon his brow as he seized the keeper's arm. "I am feeling very queer," he said. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost," said his friendly fellow-servant. "Take a pull at that," said Blogg, producing a small flask from one of the capacious pockets of his moleskin coat. "I'll get ye a drop of water," he continued, removing the little metal cup from the bottom of the flask. Half-a-dozen strides brought the keeper to the banks of the Sweir, but getting the cup full of water was not such a very easy matter. The keeper flung himself upon the turf at the edge of the rapidly running stream, but ere he did so he took the precaution to stamp, with one foot in advance, upon the edge. The reason he did this was obvious, for the soft bank was undercut by the rush of waters. He filled the little cup, and returned with it to his companion, incidentally remarking, "The banks are plaguy dangerous just here. Do ye feel better now?" he said with solicitude. "Yes, I'm better now," said the valet. "You look uncommon bad," returned the sympathetic keeper. "And I feel so, Blogg," the other replied; "give me your arm, I must lean on something. I think I'll get home at once." "Just an instant, Muster Capt," said the keeper; "there's some artful game or other been a-doin' with that beech; some chap has gone and plugged the hole of it with a lump of moss; as like as not he's got a shopful of wires there now. I'll just put my hand in and find out what they've been up to with it." "Get me home first, Blogg, if you can," hurriedly interrupted the valet, clutching his arm. "I feel," said he, with simulated anxiety, "I feel as if I were going to die." "I won't keep ye a minute, Capt, but duty's duty," answered Blogg. "Don't be a fool, man," cried the valet in an authoritative tone; "there are seven days in the week, and you can search the hole, if there is a hole, to-morrow as well as to-day."