"Do you think she is there still?" asked Neil with apparent carelessness, though his hand as he stooped to his bicycle trembled a little.
"I'm no sure, but I think, Maister Drummond, that Agnes wass troubled apoot her. I haf been troubled mysel'. For, look you, it iss an awfu' thing for the Glen that Miss Isla should haf peen spirited away like this. It iss not the same at all. And nopody efer speakin' her naame or tryin' to get her pack--that iss the worst thing of all. If you please. Maister Drummond, askin' your pardon for my free speech----"
Drummond sprang to his machine and waved his hand in parting.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Maclure. I'll bring Miss Isla back if it can be done. But keep a quiet tongue in your head--not a word to a soul."
He rode off at break-neck speed and, to the great astonishment of his folk, announced that he had to leave Garrion that very night for London, having business there.
Drummond slept soundly in the train, for he was young and strong, and he had had a tiring and exciting day.
Arrived at Euston, he entered the hotel and made himself fit for his great quest. But after he had finished his toilet and gone through the whole menu of the table d'hote breakfast it was only half-past eight. Even an old friend may not presume to call on a lady at such an unholy hour of the morning.
London had no bright welcome for the Laird of Garrion. One of the worst fogs of a particularly foggy November lay like a thick yellow pall over everything, and through its impenetrable folds weird shapes and shadows loomed, and strange, half-stifled cries troubled the air as if there were some invisible and ghostly warfare waged in the streets.
"How long do you suppose it will take me to get to the Edgeware Road in this--eh?" he asked the big porter in the hall.
"Ten minutes by the underground, sir," he answered. "After that, I don't know!"