At about three o’clock that afternoon, having ascertained that none of the servants were about, he slipped silently to Mrs. Pollen’s bedroom, the door of which was unlocked, and, entering quickly, closed the door after him. Then, walking straight to a big dressing-case which lay upon a chair near the window, he took out a bunch of keys and tried one after the other in an effort to open it. He failed, none of the keys would fit. "If I force it she’ll suspect," he murmured. "No, I must give it up for the present—curse it!" Then he made a tour of the room, opened the wardrobe, and examined the contents of several drawers, but though some expensive jewellery was there, he cast it aside in contempt. Mr. Greig did not want jewels. It was evident that he was in search of something else far more interesting. But that lock upon the dressing-case was an unusually good one, and had defied all his many keys. There was but one course to pursue, and that was to retreat to his own room, which he did in great disappointment and chagrin. That evening he watched the two women on their return. His movements were those of a practised watcher. He was unobtrusive, disinterested in everything save the picturesque surroundings, and behaved as though he had no interest whatever in any person in the hotel. That evening, while in the garden after dinner, he found himself sitting on a seat beside Mrs. Morrison, and ventured to address a remark to her regarding the glorious sunset. What more natural than in a few moments Ena and her friend were chatting affably with the new-comer. "This is my first visit to Scotland," Ena declared, though it was a falsehood, "and I’m delighted with it. My views—those of a Londoner—have entirely altered concerning Scotland and the Scottish people. I don’t agree now with the ridicule cast upon them." "I’m very glad of that," declared Mr. Greig. "In the south you don’t really understand us, I think. And perhaps we here don’t quite understand you. National prejudices are very hard to break down." "They are. But you see the majority of the English never come north. They view the Scottish people by the ridicule cast upon them by performers on our music-halls. It is unfortunate, but it is a fact." "Never mind," laughed the pleasant-faced man from Glasgow. "Our national pride is never hurt by those amblers on the stage who wax fat upon the profits of their mimicry. We only laugh at it up here, I assure you," he declared to Mrs. Pollen. The conversation drifted naturally to the fact that Mrs. Morrison told him her name, which was Scottish, and the identity of her late husband, so well known in Glasgow.