After a drive of about twenty minutes through the narrow streets the carriage stopped before the town hall. McRae jumped down from the box and assisted his prisoners to alight.
"Will I wait, me laird?" inquired old Cuthbert, in a desponding tone.
"Certainly, you old blockhead!" was the courteous reply of the viscount, as he followed his conductor into the building.
McRae, who had Mrs. Dugald on his arm, led the way through a broad stone passage, blocked up with the usual motley crowd of such a place, into an anteroom, half filled with prisoners, guarded by policemen, and waiting their turn for examination, and thence into an inner room, where, in a railed-off compartment at the upper end, and behind a long table, sat the magistrate, Sir Alexander McKetchum, and his clerk, attended by several law officers.
"Here are the prisoners, your worship," said McRae, advancing with his charge to the front of the table.
Sir Alexander looked up. He was a tall, raw-boned, sinewy old Gael, with high features, a lively, red face, blue eyes, white hair and side whiskers, and an accent as broad as Cuthbert's own. He was apparently a man of the people.
"Malcolm, lad, I am verra sorry to see your father's son here on such a charge," he said.
"I am here by your warrant, sir! it is altogether a very extraordinary proceeding!" said the viscount haughtily.
"Not mare extraordinary than painful, lad," said the magistrate.
"Who are my accusers, sir?" demanded the viscount, as if he was in ignorance of them.