‘Find it then, Alured!’ exclaimed Miss McCabe, blushing scarlet and turning aside. ‘But you are not on the list. You are an idler, and not scientific, not worth a red cent. There, I’ve given myself away!’ She wept.
They were alone, beneath the walls of a crumbling fortalice of Lochiel. The new risen moon saw Bude embrace her and dry her tears. A nameless blissful hope awakened in the fair American; help there must be, she thought, with these strong arms around her.
She rapidly disposed of the remaining names: of Howard Fry, who had a red beard; of Professor Potter of St. Andrews, whose accent was Caledonian; of Wilkinson, an ardent but unalluring scientist. ‘As for Jones Harvey,’ she said, ‘I’ve canvassed everywhere, and I can’t find anybody that ever saw him. I am more afraid of him than of all the other galoots; I don’t know why.’
‘He is reckoned very learned,’ said Bude, ‘and has not been thought ill-looking.’
‘Do tell!’ said Miss McCabe.
‘Oh, Melissa, can you even dream of another in an hour like this?’
‘Did you ever see Jones Harvey?’
‘Yes, I have met him.’
‘Do you know him well?’
‘No man knows him better.’