"
He made a little bow.
Ian inclined his head in return. "All at Black Hill are well, I hope?
My aunt--"
"Mrs. Alison is a saint. All earthly grief, I imagine, only quickens
her homeward step."
"What grief has she had, sir, beyond--"
"Beyond?"
"I know that my aunt will grieve for the break that has come between
my uncle and myself. I have, too," said Ian, with deliberation, "been
quarreled with by an old friend. That also may distress her."
The lawyer appeared to listen to sounds from the street. Rising, he
moved to the window, then returned. "Bonnet lairds coming into town!
You are referring now to Glenfernie?"
"Then he has made it common property that he chose to quarrel with
me?"
"Oh, chose to--" said Mr. Wotherspoon, reflectively.
There was a silence. Ian set down his wine-glass, made a movement of
drawing together, of determination.
"I am sure that there is something of which I have not full
understanding. You will much oblige me by attention to what I now say,
Mr. Wotherspoon. It is possible that I may ask you to see that its
substance reaches Black Hill." He leaned back in his chair and with
his gold-brown eyes met the lawyer's keen blue ones. "Nothing now can
be injured by telling you that for a year I have acted under
responsibility of having in keeping greater fortunes than my own.
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