“Puir lambs! Puir lambs!” said Jean.
“I have questioned them about it, but they know nothing.”
“And how should they, babes as they be?” said Jean.
“You’ll not be offended, Jean Macfarlane and Donald Macfarlane, if I ask you the same question?”
Jean flushed an angry red for a moment; but Donald’s shrewd face puckered up in a smile.
“You may ask, and hearty welcome,” he said; “but I know no more aboot the bit packet than the lassies do, and that’s naucht at all.”
“Nor me no more than he,” echoed Jean.
“Do you think, by any possibility, any one from outside got into the house and stole the little packet?”
“Do I think!” exclaimed Jean. “Let me tell you, laird, that a man or woman as got in here unbeknownst to Donald and me would go out again pretty quick with a flea in the ear.”
Sir John smiled. “I believe you,” he said. He went upstairs, feeling puzzled. But when he laid his head on his pillow he was so tired that he fell sound asleep. The sleep seemed to last but for a minute or two when Jean’s harsh voice was heard telling him to rise, for it was five o’clock in the morning. Then there came a time of bustle and confusion. The girls, with their faces white as sheets, came down to breakfast in their usual fashion—hand linked within hand. Sir John thought, as he glanced at them, that he had never seen a more desolate-looking little trio. They hardly ate any of the excellent food which Jean had provided. The good baronet guessed that their hearts were full, and did not worry them with questions.