When these two did come in to dinner—nearly a quarter of an hour late—their hostess looked anxiously from one to the other. But what could she perceive? Mary Avon was somewhat pale, and she was silent: but that had been her way of late. As for the Laird, he came in whistling the tune of the Queen’s Maries, which was a strange grace before meat, and he looked airily around him at the walls. "I would just like to know," said he lightly, "whether there is a single house in all Scotland where ye will not find an engraving of one or other of Mr. Thomas Faed’s pictures in some one of the rooms?" And he preserved this careless and indifferent demeanour during dinner. After dinner he strolled into the library. He would venture upon a small cigar. His sole companion was the person whose humble duty in this household is to look after financial matters, so that other folks may enjoy themselves in idleness. The Laird lay back in an easy chair, stretched out his legs, lit his cigar, and held it at arm’s length, as if it were something that ought to be looked at at a distance. "You had something to do with the purchase of Miss Mary’s American stock, eh?" said he, pretending to be concerned about the end of the cigar. "Yes." "What was it?" "Funded Five per Cent." "What would be about the value of it now?" "Just now? Oh, perhaps 106, or 107." "No, no, no. I mean, if the bonds that that ill-faured scoondrel carried away with him were to be sold the now, what money, what English money, would they fetch?" But this required some calculation. "Probably about 7,300*l*." "I was asking," said the Laird, "because I was wondering whether there was any chance of tracing them." "Not the least. They are like bank-notes—more useful indeed, to a swindler than even bank-notes." "Ay, is that so?" said the Laird; and he seemed to be so charmed with his whistling of the air of Queen’s Maries that he returned to that performance. Oddly enough, however, he never ventured beyond the first line: perhaps he was afraid of missing the tune. "Seven thousand, three hundred," said he, meditatively. "Man, that’s a strong cigar—little, and black, and strong. Seven thousand, three hundred. Girls are strange craytures. I remember what that young Doctor was saying once about weemen being better able to bear pain than men, and not so much afraid of it either——" And here the Queen’s Maries came in again. "It would be a strange thing," said the Laird, with a sort of rueful laugh, "if I were to have a steam yacht all to myself, and cruise about in search of company, eh? No, no; that will not do. My neighbours in Strathgovan will never say that I deserted them, just when great improvements and serious work have to be looked forward to. I will not have it said that I ran away, just to pleasure myself. Howard, my lad," he added, imaginatively addressing his absent nephew, "I doubt but ye’ll have to whistle for that steam yacht." The Laird rose.