Then we came to a junction within sight of St. Andrews, and when I was informed by the railway agent that I would have to wait half an hour for a connection I told him that I would walk down the track. He informed me that this was against the law. Having some familiarity with the monotony with which the laws are enforced in Scotland, I smoked and waited.
The railroad skirts the links of St. Andrews, and from its pictures I recognised the club house. Disdaining to ask questions or take a carriage, I ordered my luggage to a hotel and started on a brisk walk, hoping thus to brace myself for the ordeal ahead of me.
She was here. Somewhere in this picturesque old town she was living and breathing that very moment. She had passed through the street which then resounded with my brisk footsteps. Her name had been Grace Harding. Was it yet Grace Harding?
I ran square into Carter!
"Why, my dear Smith!" he exclaimed, clutching at his monocle which came as near falling as it well could and remain in place. "Why don't you call 'Fore!' when you drive ahead like this? You're in Scotland, my dear fellow!"
I begged his pardon, though of course it was not necessary. We heartily shook hands—at least he did.
We were on a corner of a crooked and cobblestoned street which twists around the side of a hill. There is a small store on this corner, and its neatly pointed red bricks and shining plate glass are sharp in contrast to the ancient and somewhat dilapidated structures which surround it. I recall these facts distinctly, and I can see even now every attitude and expression on the part of Carter.
During our brief interview his eyes frequently wandered from mine to those plate-glass windows, as if something within were of vast interest to him.
"You're looking fine, Carter," I said, and he was; "St. Andrews must agree with you."
He smiled placidly and his eye twinkled merrily through that monocle.