Argyll laughed. “Heavens!” he cried, “is the man gane wud? Have you any charge against this unfortunate foreigner who has dared to shelter himself in my woods? And if you have, do you fancy it is the old feudal times with us still, and that I can clap him in my dungeon—if I had such a thing—without any consultation with the common law-officers of the land? Wake up, Sim! wake up! this is '55, and there are sundry written laws of the State that unfortunately prevent even the Mac-Cailen Mor snatching a man from the footpath and hanging him because he has not the Gaelic accent and wears his hair in a different fashion from the rest of us. Don't be a fool, cousin, don't be a fool!”
“It's as your Grace likes,” said MacTaggart. “But if this man's not in any way concerned in the Appin affair, he may very well be one of the French agents who are bargaining for men for the French service, and the one thing's as unlawful as the other by the act of 'thirty-six.”
“H'm!” said Argyll, turning more grave, and shrewdly eyeing his Chamberlain—“H'm! have you any particularly good reason to think that?” He waited for no answer, but went on. “I give it up, MacTaggart,” said he, with a gesture of impatience. “Gad! I cannot pretend to know half the plots you are either in yourself or listening on the outside of, though I get credit, I know, for planning them. All I want to know is, have you any reason to think this part of Scotland—and incidentally the government of this and every well-governed realm, as the libels say—would be bettered by the examination of this man? Eh?”
MacTaggart protested the need was clamant. “On the look of the man I would give him the jougs,” said he. “It's spy—”
“H'm!” said Argyll, then coughed discreetly over a pinch of snuff.
“Spy or agent,” said the Chamberlain, little abashed at the interjection.
“And yet a gentleman by the look of him, said Sim MacTaggart, five minutes syne.”
“And what's to prevent that?” asked the Chamberlain almost sharply. “Your Grace will admit it's nothing to the point,” said he, boldly, and smilingly, standing up, a fine figure of a man, with his head high and his chest out. “It was the toss of a bawbee whether or not I should apprehend him myself when I saw him, and if I had him here your Grace would be the first to admit my discretion.”
“My Grace is a little more judicious than to treat the casual pedestrian like a notour thief,” said Argyll; “and yet, after all, I dare say the matter may be left to your good judgment—that is, after you have had a word or two on the matter with Petullo, who will better be able to advise upon the rights to the persons of suspicious characters in our neighbourhood.”
With never a word more said MacTaggart clapped on his hat, withdrew in an elation studiously concealed from his master, and fared at a canter to Petullo's office in the town. He fastened the reins to the ring at the door and entered.