"I never said that!" cried the girl angrily.
"Hoots, lassie, I'm nae blind, foreby yon limmer at the inn tauld me ye'd taken a gait o' yer own. An' me," cried Gowrie, raising his voice in indignation, "coming tae the inn for a bite and a sup, wi' nae siller tae pay, believing my ain child wud wark off the bill."
"She's had enough of that," said Kind roughly, "she was quite right to leave. She is stopping with Armour the policeman, and goes with me when we leave this place."
"And wi' Herries?"
"We don't know where he is," said Kind smartly, seeing that Elspeth hesitated to tell the white fib.
"An' hoo, then, can ye luve him?" demanded Gowrie cunningly.
"I loved him when he slept at the inn," returned the girl, "he helped with the bucket; the first person who was ever kind to me."
"Eh, Romeo and Juliet, o' Wully Shakespeare," chuckled Gowrie, "the bard wisnae sae far wrang in his gab o' luve at first sight. Wull yon lad marry ye, Elspeth, dae ye theenk?"
"What makes you think that we are engaged?" she asked evasively.
"My lassie," said the old man chuckling, "I ken the waiys o' wumon, none better. In the Patmos in the weelderness, where I wis hiding, I read the papers, and saw aboot yon escape. Thinks I, Elspeth hes mair to do wi' this nor meets the eye. Didnae I see the blink of yer een when Herries wis chatting in the tap-room. He couldnae ha' escaped by himsel. Nae, nae, where there's a mon, there a wumon, sae I joost pit twa and twa togither. Aye, he's yer mon, lassie."