"Who was it?"
"I forget the name," the Editor replied. "In fact, I was rather vexed at the time about my friend Ross's book—and Mr. Bethune getting money from Lord Musselburgh; and I did not say very much. I am glad there is some explanation; one likes to think the best of a brother Scot. But you—you are not a Scot?" he demanded with a swift glance of inquiry.
"No, I am not," said Vincent, "but I am very much interested in Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter; and as they quite suddenly disappeared from London, I thought it very likely they had returned to the United States; and also, if they had come to New York, I imagined you would be sure to know."
"One thing is pretty certain," said Mr. Anstruther. "If George Bethune is in this city, he will be heard of to-morrow evening."
"To-morrow evening?" Vincent repeated, vaguely.
"The twenty-fifth!" exclaimed the Editor, with an astonished stare.
And yet the young man seemed none the wiser.
"It is evident you are no Scotchman," Mr. Anstruther said at length, and with good humour. "You don't remember that 'a blast o' Janwar win' blew hansel in on Robin'? The twenty-fifth of January—the birthday of Robert Burns!"
"Oh, yes—oh, certainly," said Vincent, with guilty haste.
"There will be a rare gathering of the clans to-morrow night," the Editor continued; "and if George Bethune is on this side the water, he'll either show up himself or somebody will have heard of him."