The canny lad was slinking away amid a derisive titter, when a great silence fell on the booth. Those in front fell back, and those behind craned their necks to see over the heads of the people before them.
At the mouth of the booth stood the old Laird Fisher, his face ghastly pale, his eyes big and restless, the rain dripping from his long hair and beard.
"They've telt me," he began in a strange voice, "they've telt me that my Mercy has gone off in the London train. I reckon they're mistook as to the lass, but I've come to see for mysel'. Is she here?"
None answered. Only the heavy rain-drops that pattered on the canvas overhead broke the silence. Paul Ritson pushed his way through the crowd.
"Mercy?—London? Wait, Matthew; I'll see if she's here."
The Laird Fisher looked from face to face of the people about him.
"Any on you know owt about her?" he asked in a low voice. "Why don't you speak, some on you? You shake your heads—what does that mean?"
The old man was struggling to control the emotion that was surging in his throat.
"No, Matthew, she's not here," said Paul Ritson.
"Then maybe it's true," said Matthew, with a strange quiet.