Old Willie Murray the cobbler had been bed-ridden for over a year, and when I dropped into Dauvit's shop this morning Mary Rickart was telling Dauvit that his old master was dead.
"Aye, Dauvit," she was saying when I entered, "I'm no the kind that speaks ill o' the deid, but I will say this, that Wull Murray had his faults. Aye, and though he's a corp the day, I canna pertend that he was ony freend o' mine."
When Mary had gone Dauvit turned to me with a queer smile.
"Dominie, you tell me that you have studied the science o' the mind, psy—what is't you call it?"
"Psychology," I said.
"That's the word. Weel then, dominie, just tell me why Mary Rickart had sic a pick at auld Willie Murray."
I smoked for a time thoughtfully.
"It's difficult, Dauvit. I haven't got enough evidence. However I think I can make a good guess."
"Weel?"
"Mary and Willie sat in the same class at school?"