“Well, yes, naturally,” said the good-humoured host, with a laugh; “it appears you don’t know me any more than I know you.” “I’m from the Bank of Scotland--the Glasgow branch,” said the stranger. “I have come, if you please, with a private communication from the manager, very important. If I could speak a word to you by yourself----” “The Bank of Scotland! Then you have not come to the ball?” said Rowland. The newcomer looked round with a glance of admiration and awe. He was a young man, and he thought it a scene of enchantment, though his Scotch pride was too great to permit any desire to intrude himself into that dazzling assembly. He drew himself up a little and replied, “I have nothing to do with the ball. I knew nothing about it. I have driven round the head of the loch, a very long road; and I’ve no prospect but to spend the whole night that way, getting back. Ten minutes, sir, if you can give it me, will be enough for what I have to say.” “Come this way,” said Rowland, drawing back the curtain that covered the library door. He had preferred to keep his sanctuary uninvaded by the visitors, to whom the rest of the house had been thrown open. He stirred the fire in the grate, which was burning low, and turned up higher the subdued light of the lamp. “Sit down there,” he said, “and get warm; and tell me what this business is that has brought you so far on a cold night. I suppose you missed the boat?” “I just missed it by two minutes, so there was nothing to do but to drive; if I had known that there was a ball, I think I should have stayed on the other side till the morning, whatever the manager said.” “Oh, never mind that,” said Rowland, with a genial laugh. “Dancing’s not much in my line--a little business will be a diversion. What is it? The Bank of Scotland has not broke, I hope, nor the Bank of England either. Banks have no great reputation, I’m afraid, in these parts.” “The Bank of Scotland, sir, is not like your Glasgow Banks,” said the visitor, with some severity, for he was an east country man. He paused a little, and then he took from the breast pocket of his overcoat a case, and from that a piece of paper. “Will you tell me if this is your signature?” he said. It was a cheque for a thousand pounds--a cheque crumpled and refolded in diverse ways, as if it had already passed through several hands. Rowland took it with great surprise, and held it to the light. “My signature?” he said. It was mere bewilderment, not intuition, which kept him silent as he examined the writing; and then there sprang a sudden flutter and dart of anguish through his heart, which he neither understood nor could account for. “It looks like my signature--why do you ask such a question?” He said this, scarcely knowing why, to gain time: though he could not have told why he wanted to gain time.