"You can stop at that price by the daiy," said Mrs. Narby, after some reflection, "but there's a lot of fellers come 'ere to stop 'cos of thet there murder. If I gets a better lodger, out y' goes." This just suited Gowrie, as he knew that Mrs. Narby was bluffing. No one would stop at the "Marsh Inn" while the season was so wet, notwithstanding the attraction of the murder. What Captain Kyles was doing in such a damp locality he could not think, unless indeed the Captain was trying to hide his tracks in the affair of the murder, always supposing that he was guilty. Gowrie was not sure of this, in spite of Mrs. Mountford's accusation. Nor did he believe the rash statement of Herries that Mrs. Mountford herself had committed the crime. But if she was innocent and Kyles was not guilty, who had killed the old man? This was what Gowrie wished to learn, and he soon saw that he had set himself a very difficult task. "Weel," said he, when Mrs. Narby gave her decision, "we'll close on those terrums. I'll tack ma room by the nicht an ma board by the day. There's haulf-a-croon in advaunce, an' dinna waste it. Where's yon gowk o' a Pope?" "My son's in Londing, and I'll thenk y' not t' call 'im names," said Mrs. Narby hotly. "He's a genius, and 'ave gone to git 'is poetry inter print, so there." "An' wha's gain' tae publish his doggrel?" "'Imself!" snapped the landlady sulkily. "An' where's the siller comin' frae?" Mrs. Narby put her arms akimbo in her favourite attitude and stormed in her old style. "I guve it 'im, d'y' see," she cried furiously, "y' think I carn't do wot I likes with m' own? Me an' Narby 'ave come in for a legacy, and we're a-goin' t' giv h'up th' inn an' go t' th' Staits, where Narby wos reared. Pope's comin' too, arter he 'as 'is verse brought h'out. So there, an' I don' want any of yer sauce, though yer are the father-in-lawr of thet cove es murdered Sir Simon, es I believe he did." "Wumon!" "Don't call me naimes, or I'll scretch th' h'eyes h'out o' yer 'ead; an' there's Allus callin' in the kitching," and Mrs. Narby hurried away, leaving Gowrie full of thought. He obtained a glass of whisky from Alice, the miserable maid-of-all-work, who had stepped into Elspeth's place, and sat down on the tap-room settle to smoke and think. Outside the rain was falling heavily, and there was the usual grey mist over the marshes. But the room was warm, and the fire burned brightly. Mr. Gowrie approved of the whisky, and the pipe soothed his nerves, which had been rather upset by Mrs. Narby's sudden wrath. With his glass in his gouty old hand, and his pipe in his mouth, he sat staring at the driftwood fire, thinking a lot, after the fashion of the celebrated parrot.