“No, Mr. Fred, not a gentleman at all--John Saunderson from the ‘Dun Cow.’” “John Saunderson from the ‘Dun Cow’?” “It was to speak about something that had happened. He said that if the young laird would have the kindness to step out at the gate--he’s no just in trim for a grand house, and he would like to speak to yourself in a private way.” “Bring him here, then, Foggo.” “No, Mr. Fred: he would take it far kinder if you would just step out to the gate.” And this was what Fred finally did. He found the landlord of the “Dun Cow” exceedingly embarrassed, not knowing how to begin his story. He took off his blue bonnet at the sight of Fred, and began to twirl it round and round in his hands. “It’s about an accident that’s happened,” said John. “Do you want me to do anything? I’m very much occupied; if it’s anything Foggo could do----” “Na, it’s not Foggo I want” (he said Foggy, after the fashion of his locality), “it’s just yoursel’. There was a gentleman came to lodge in my house last night. We whiles get a stranger--that’s not very particular.” “A gentleman?” “A gentleman with a beard.” The man eyed Fred very closely, who did not know what to reply. “Yes,” he said, with a little catch of his breath, “and what then?” “The gentleman must have gone down, so far as we can see, very early to take a bath in the sea. Nobody heard him go out. My own idea is he never was in after he got his supper. He first went to the door for a smoke, and my impression is----” “What happened?” said Fred. His mouth was so dry he could scarcely speak. “He must have gone into the sea to take a bath awfu’ early in the morning, before we were up. The wife she thought she heard a cry about four o’clock, and I got up, for she gave me no peace, and looked about and saw nothing. But later there was one came running and said a man’s clo’es were on the sands, close by some rocks--just for all the world as they were that time, ye mind, Mr. D’yell, when your father was lost. I just took to my heels and ran all the way to the sands. And there was his clo’es, sure enough.” “The man?” Fred gasped again. “They got him after a bittie, with his hands clasped full of the seaweed, and his knee raised up upon a rock. He must have made a fight, poor gentleman, for his life. Na, I see what you are thinking: it was nae suicide. He had got up his knee upon a bit of rock, and his hands were full of the weeds--nasty slimy unprofitable things.” There was a pause, and the man lowered his voice a little significantly before he said, “I would like much, Mr. Frederick, if you would come down and see him.” Fred was not able to speak. He shrank more than he could say from this dreadful sight. He shook his head in the impulse of his panic and horror. “Sir,” said the man, “I’ve known your father, Mr. Robert D’yell, Yalton, man and boy, for more than forty year. If I didna know he had been drowned two years ago I would say yon was him.”