"I am back, Donal!" said Ian, and threw himself into a chair by the
table. "Come, give an account of your errands!"
Donal, middle-aged, faithful, dour and sagacious, and years away from
loch and mountain, gave account. Horses, weapons, clothing, all
correct for Dr. Robert Bonshaw and his servant, riding under high
protection from Paris to Dunkirk, where a well-captained
merchant-vessel stayed for them in port. Ian nodded approval.
"I'm indebted, Donal, to my cousin Gordon!"
Donal let a smile come to within a league of the surface. "Her
ainself has a wish to hear the eagle scream over Ben Nevis!"
Rullock's hand moved over a paper, checking a row of figures. "Did you
manage to get into my old lodging?"
"Aye. None there. All dusty and bare. But the woman who had the key
gave me--since I said I might make a guess where to find you,
sir--these letters. They came, she said, two weeks ago." Donal laid
them upon the table.
"Ah!" said Ian, "they must have gotten through before I shut off the
old passageway." He took them in his hand. "There's nothing more now,
Donal. Go out for your dinner."
The man went. Ian added another column of figures, then took the
letters and with them moved to a window through which streamed the sun
of France. The floor was patched with gold; there was warmth as well
as light.
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