"'I thocht ye had lang syne made up your mind that he had deid on the moors like a braxy sheep. What's this they ca'd him?---- Oh, ay,--Bryden. What mak's you think it was him?'
"'Weel, I saw him yesterday in the High Street. He had a week's growth on his face, and that in itsel' is a disguise, and he walks wi' a limp, which he didna dae when he was wi' us; but what jogged my memory was a wee jerk he gied his shoothers. I couldna mind off-haun' where I had seen it afore. Hooever, an 'oor afterwards when I was thinkin' o' something else, it flashed across me that Bryden used to move his shoother and his left elbow exactly that wey. So says I to masel', that's the man; and I went back to the place where I'd seen him. Of coorse he was there nae langer.'
"'What are ye gaun to dae? Ha'e ye tellt yer Captain yet?"
"'No' me! I'm no' sae saft. I'm keepin' my een open, an' if he's still in Dumfries I'll be comin' across him ere lang and I'll arrest him on suspicion, and tak' him afore Lag himsel'. Man, there's a price on his heid.'
"Weel, I had learned a lot, and I knew it was you they were after, for I ha'e noticed the jerk o' your left elbow tae. So I made up my mind that afore I should gang oot to Locharbriggs I wad slip across to Phemie McBride's and gi'e ye warning. So I finished my yill and paid my score an' set oot.
"Juist as I was aboot to leave the close-mooth, a dragoon clapped me on the shoother and said: "'You're Hector the packman, are ye no?'
"'Ay,' says I. 'What of it?'
"'Weel,' says he, 'ye maun come wi' me. Ye're wanted.'
"'Wanted?' says I. 'Wha wants me?'
"'Sir Robert Grier o' Lag. I've nae doot ye've heard tell o' him.'