"He is not at Achree."
"But he lives in this neighbourhood, surely? He has not left Scotland?" said the stranger with a quick, apprehensive note in her voice.
"No, he lives farther up the Glen--oh, a long way. You could not possibly walk it," said Isla hastily. "Good morning. I must go on."
She was ashamed of herself for having lingered to parley even a moment with this woman, who, she felt sure, by her coming presaged more dool and woe to Achree. How she longed to get clean away from the Glen before the name of Mackinnon was dragged in the mire! This impossible woman must have a hold of some kind on Malcolm, else she never would have dared to come seeking him in his own glen.
As she turned away her soul felt sick within her.
"I'm sorry you are not walking my way," said the stranger easily. "I'll walk on a bit farther and take a look at the place, now I have come so far. What a country! Such hills! And how dull you must all find it! I'm stopping at Strathyre, and when there are not the hills, there's the water to get on your nerves. I don't wonder the Scotch are a melancholy people. Ta-ta!"
She waved her plump, gloved hand in quite friendly fashion, and showed her dazzling teeth in a pleasant smile as she sauntered off.
Isla, with her limbs positively trembling beneath her, hurried over the bridge, and so on to the hotel, where she merely left a message, ordering the trap to fetch her and her luggage from Creagh in the morning.
She had had various plans when she started out. She had thought she might possibly hire Jamie Forbes to take her through Balquhidder to Garrion, or that she might even on the way home pay a call at Achree.
But after what had just happened, she had only one desire--to get away out of Glenogle as fast as the fastest train could take her.