One's overdue now."
"How does he write?"
"They are very short. He doesn't touch on old things--except, perhaps,
back into boyhood. She likes to get them. When you see her, don't
speak of anything save his staying in France, as he ought to." He
dragged toward him a jar of snuff. "There are informers and seekers
out everywhere. Do you remember a man in Edinburgh named Gleig?"
"Yes."
"Well, he's one of them. And for some reason he has a personal enmity
toward Ian. So, you see--"
He lapsed into silence, a small, aging, chilly, wrinkled, troubled
man. Then with suddenness a wintry red crept into his cheek, a
brightness into his eyes. "You've changed so, Glenfernie, you've
cheated me! You are his foe yourself. Perhaps even--"
"Perhaps even--?"
The other gave a shriveled response to the smile. "No. I certainly did
not mean that." He took his head in his hands and sighed. "What a
world it is! As I go down the hill I wish sometimes that I had
Alison's eyes.... Well, tell me about yourself."
"The one thing that I want to tell you just now, Black Hill, is that I
am not any longer bloodhound at the heels of Ian. What was done is
done. Let us go on to better things. So at last will be unknit what
was done."
Black Hill both seemed and did not seem to pay attention. The man who
sat before him was big and straight and gave forth warmth and light.
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