"Who?" demanded McRae.
"The murderer, sir!" answered the policeman, at the same moment dragging into view the assassin of Ailsie Dunbar, the ex-valet of Lord Vincent, Alick Frisbie.
Heavily fettered, his knees knocking together, pale and trembling, the wretch stood in the middle of the floor.
"Where did you take him?" inquired McRae.
"At the 'Bagpipes,' Peterhead," replied the successful captor.
"Pray, upon what charge is he arrested?" inquired the viscount, in a shaking voice, that he tried in vain to make steady.
"A trifle of murder, among other fancy performances," said McRae.
At this moment Frisbie caught sight of his master and set up a howl, through which his words were barely audible:
"Oh, my lord, you will never betray me! You will never be a witness against me! You will never hang me! You promised that you would not!"
"Hold your tongue, you abominable fool! What the fiend are you talking about? Do you forget yourself, sir?" roared the viscount, furious at the fatal folly of his weak accomplice.