Merton lay in bed inventing imaginary dialogues to be rendered into Scots as occasion served. Presently Logan brought him a little book named Mansie Waugh.
‘That is our lingo here,’ he said; and Merton studied the work carefully, marking some phrases with a pencil.
In about an hour Logan reported that the detectives were at work in the secret passage. The lesson in the Scots of the Lothians began, accompanied by sounds of muffled laughter. Not for two or three centuries can the turret chamber at Kirkburn have heard so much merriment.
The afternoon passed in this course of instruction.
Merton was a fairly good mimic, and Logan felt at last that he could not readily be detected for an Englishman. Six o’clock had scarcely struck when Mrs. Bower’s grandson was ushered into the bedroom. The exchange of clothes took place, Merton dressing as the young Bower undressed. The detectives, who had found nothing, were being entertained by Mrs. Bower at dinner.
‘I know how the trap in the secret passage is worked,’ said Merton, ‘but you keep them hunting for it.’
Had the worthy detectives been within earshot the yells of laughter echoing in the turret as the men dressed must have suggested strange theories to their imaginations.
‘Larks!’ said Merton, as he blackened his face with coal dust.
Dismissing young Bower, who was told to wait in the hall, Merton made his final arrangements. ‘You will communicate with me under cover to Trevor,’ he said. He took a curious mediæval ring that he always wore from his ringer, and tied it to a piece of string, which he hung round his neck, tucking all under his shirt. Then he arranged his thick comforter so as to hide the back of his head and neck (he had bitten his nails and blackened them with coal).
‘Logan, I only want a bottle of whisky, the cork drawn and loose in the bottle, and a few dirty Scotch one pound notes; and, oh! has Mrs. Bower a pack of cards?’