Medina shrugged. He had not enjoyed the moment as much as he had hoped and was, anyway, distracted by the woman sitting near the window, brown dress, blue shawl, a hat with a feather, her dish of tea untouched. Her face was away from him. She had her hair pinned up and the light lay silver on her neck. Her stillness. What was the meaning of such stillness? Then the noise of a door shouldered open—the butcher’s boy on his way through, half a pig in his arms—and she turned, startled, scanning the room. She saw Medina, or she looked at him, at where he was sitting, the air he occupied. He inclined his head to her but she made no gesture in return. She turned away again, resumed her stillness.

On the Broomielaw they called down to the decks of boats being readied for sea and a short while before ten boarded a vessel bound for the Isle of Arran. Arran, explained the man who had waved them on board, who wrote out each of them a little ticket, fanning the paper in the air to dry the ink, was an excellent place to start a tour. They should go for a tramp up Goat Fell. Views to inspire! Take your sketch books, gentlemen! Your watercolour boxes!

It was early evening by the time they reached the island. They walked from the quay to a hotel, leaned at the bar, stood drinks and brought the talk around to a friend of theirs, a man travelling ahead of them, English, an army officer, perhaps with a fiddle among his things and wanting to hear music. Name of Lacroix, though sometimes, for whimsical reasons, introducing himself as Mr. Lovall.

It was a risk of course, after the business with Captain Browne. One thing to make a man swear on his life, to fill him with the fear, another to be confident your work will last. What news from Dumbarton might have been carried on the boat ahead of them? But no one had heard of any English officer travelling alone with a fiddle, though some took half a bottle to be sure of it.