“Oh, indeed?—got into trouble, I suppose,” I returned, with interest. “Well, man,” I added, in a confidential whisper, “I know a place where your dearest friends couldn’t get at you. You’d be safer there than anywhere. Care to go?” He wasn’t sure. He didn’t mind going, but he did not promise to stay there. He was glad of company, however, and offered to treat me to some drink. I was in a hurry, and begged to be excused. “You belong to Berwick?” I said, decidedly. He looked startled and troubled. “Who said that? How do you know?” he stammered. “I know the Berwick burr, and you’ve got it strong,” I quietly answered. “I haven’t been in Berwick for mony a year,” he said firmly. “I thought that—that’s what puzzled me for a while—you’ve got a touch of Coldstream or Kelso on your tongue,” I coolly remarked. He stared at me in evident consternation, and getting a trifle pale, but made no reply. I had been studying his appearance, and from that moment felt almost certain of my man. I conducted him by North College Street, down College Wynd, chatting familiarly all the way, but never extracting from him his real name. I took him that way to convey to him the idea that he was going to some low “howf,” in which a man in trouble might burrow safely, and was pleased to note that, as the route became more disreputable, his spirits rose. He evidently did not know the city, and that circumstance aided me. I turned up the Fishmarket Close, and into the side entrance to the Central. “What kind o’ a place is this?” he asked, staggered at the width and spaciousness of the stair. “It’s the place I told you of,” I carelessly answered, taking care to make him move up the stairs in front of me. I saw his step become more faltering and unsteady, and when we reached the door of the “reception room,” I knew by his ghastly pallor that the truth had flashed upon him. “Straight in there, Smeaton,” I said, as his eye fell on me. “This is an unexpected pleasure to both of us.” He looked at me like a trapped tiger, and I fully expected him to make a dash and dive for liberty. “What’s your name?” he almost groaned. “M^cGovan.” “The devil!” he ungratefully exclaimed; and then I led him in, and accommodated him with a seat. He became fearfully agitated, and at length blurted out— “If anything has happened to the girl, I’m not to blame for it.”