"It is but a laddie's whistle," snapped Miss Macpherson, "haste ye."
But he appeared to have a dread of something in his mind.
"That is no boy's whistle," he replied sullenly, "but the pipe o' Muckle John."
Then Rob could have shouted for joy, for he knew in a trice who the great man in Fraser's tavern had been, who but the stranger on the moor who had lured the weasel from his lair. Nearer came the ripple of music, and then sounded a lusty banging at the street door and a man's voice shouting for entry.
"Whist!" said his aunt, and again came the knocking.
"Wha's there?" she cried.
"Open!" returned the voice—a deep bass voice like the noise of a bull. "Open in the name of the King!"
"Better open, Mistress Macpherson," counselled the master; "though I would I were out of here. If I had a sword, but who ever saw a dominie with such a thing?" and he laughed ruefully, while a furious knocking beat upon the door. Presently Rob saw the yellow light of a candle, and heard the falling back of the bolts.
A cold burst of night air rushed into the place, and with it there entered a great, formidable looking man, so tall that he must needs bend nearly double to enter, dressed in riding clothes, and with his hat rammed down upon his face.
Rob slid into the room. Beside him stood Mr. Macaulay, the rope still dangling in his hands. His aunt was facing the stranger, holding the candle high so that its rays fell upon his face.