“Can you talk Scotch?” she asked.
“Do you mean Gaelic?”
“Yes; if you can do that, it’s better still, because Uncle Marcus ‘has not’ Gaelic.” He could talk Gaelic, and he understood English. He laughed: in his present mood this seemed a good joke, and Diana laughed, too, which showed she was kind: then she asked, “How did Scotch policemen dress?” The young man was sure—in blue. Diana decided he must wear a mackintosh. Uncle Marcus would be much too agitated to see anything: the mere sight of a policeman would be paralyzing to one of his temperament. The young man asked if Mr. Maitland would be likely to see the joke.
“Jokes are difficult things to deal with,” admitted Diana. “There are better jokes than those we don’t see: and there are none so good as those we see. It gives Uncle Marcus a way out.”
Down the road walked Diana with the policeman to be, while Uncle Marcus pleaded, through a locked door, with a Diana not there. Then he grew stuffy and offended as he always did in time, being of so affectionate and sensitive a nature, and he went downstairs to the smoking-room, muttering to himself that if she didn’t want to, he didn’t, and so on. He took up his “Scotsman.” How often had he found a refuge behind its generous pages, and he had only just taken up his position of offended dignity when the door opened and Pillar announced the arrival of the policeman.
“Idiot!” said Mr. Maitland, meaning Pillar, of course, and in walked the policeman.
“Just one moment,” said Marcus, jumping up; “I must ask some one something before we go any further.” And he went upstairs, two steps at a time, to Diana’s room, and found her door still locked. He tried it again and again, which took time: and while he was upstairs the real policeman happened to call for a subscription to a most deserving charity (the news of the generosity of the Glenbossie tenant had spread abroad like wild fire) and the pseudo-policeman retired in favour of the real thing, in the cause of charity.
When Mr. Maitland came down he did not notice the change—a policeman is a policeman to the law-abiding citizen, whether in a mackintosh or not.
“I am afraid there has been some mistake,” he began, careful to seat himself back to the light: that much he had learned from much reading—in his youth—of detective stories. The policeman politely remarked that we were all liable—as human creatures—to make mistakes. Which axiom, pronounced in broad Scotch—of all accents the most comforting—sounded the kindest and most cheerful, as well as the most Christian, thing Marcus had heard for many a long day. Of course the policeman spoke generally, knowing nothing of any particular mistake. Mr. Maitland hastened to say he was sorry he had troubled him, and the policeman very naturally said the trouble was to be Mr. Maitland’s. Marcus felt that acutely: there was no need to remind him of it.
“Now about the note—” began Marcus. And the genial policeman said: One would do, although he would not be refusing more, if Mr. Maitland should be feeling so disposed—and he put out his capacious hand.