"Hear to the Hieland deevils," said Mr. Jarvie; "they think themselves already on the skirts of Ben Lomond! But what's this?"
There was a clash of iron at his feet, and stooping to the causeway cobbles, the Bailie lifted the keys of the jail which Dougal had carried away in his flight.
"Indeed," he said, "and that's just as well. For they cost the burgh siller, and there might have been some talk in the council about the loss of them, that I would little like to have heard. It would not be the first time they had cast up my kin to me, if Bailie Grahame and some others should get wind of this night's work."
The next morning at the Bailie's hospitable table, Frank Osbaldistone met Mr. Owen—but altogether another Owen from him of the tolbooth—neat, formal, and well brushed as ever, though still in the lowest of spirits about the misfortunes of the house.
They had not long begun when Frank, who could be brusque enough upon occasion, startled the Bailie by the question, "And pray, by the bye, Mr. Nicol Jarvie, who is this Mr. Robert Campbell whom I met last night?"
The question, abruptly put, seemed to knock the worthy Bailie all of a heap. He stammered and repeated it over and over, as if he had no answer ready.
"Wha's Mr. Robert Campbell? Ahem—ahay—! Wha's Mr. Robert Campbell, quo' he?"
"Yes," repeated the young Englishman, "I mean who and what is he?"
"Why, he's—ahay! He's—ahem! Where did you meet Mr. Robert Campbell, as you call him yourself?"
"I met him by chance," Frank answered promptly, "some months ago, in the north of England."
