“Oh, that’s very sporting of you, Muggins. Thanks awfully. Are you ready, Myrtle?”

“I’m ready.”

“Hullo, going off fishing with Hector?” Ben Nevis woofed, when he met them in the entrance-hall. “Hope you’ll have good sport. What flies are you taking, Hector?”

His eldest son told him, and the Chieftain shook his head.

“If you’re wise you’ll take some Yellow Munks—medium and large. When you get a day early in September clouding over about eleven o’clock after a bright morning, Yellow Munks are the flies for Loch Hoch. That was always my experience when I fished regularly.”

“You prefer Yellow Munks to Speckled Champions?” Hector asked.

“Oh, every time, my dear boy, every time. If I couldn’t make ’em look at Yellow Munks I’d try ’em with Forktailed Violets before Speckled Champions any day, or for that matter Brown Nixies.”

“If you suggest any more bugs to Hector, he’ll want a beehive to carry them around,” Myrtle said.

“Bugs?” Ben Nevis echoed in astonishment. “You never fish with bugs.”

“Well, what are we going to do with these rainbow-coloured bugs if the fish won’t eat them?”

“These aren’t bugs. These are flies,” Ben Nevis said.

“We call them bugs at home.”

“Do you?” Ben Nevis exclaimed in amazement, and as his eldest son and Myrtle got into the two-seater he shook his head in what was evidently a sudden apprehensiveness about the future. Then he recalled the Chester Royde millions, and his brow cleared like Ben Cruet’s peak emerging from the wrack of a passing storm.

When Carrie reached Knocknacolly she found James Buchanan waiting for her, dressed in a dark grey suit and wearing a dark grey hat.

“James,” she cried, “where’s your kilt?”

“A kilt is not the right way to dress for a matter of business. I have all the papers for Mr Royde to sign.”

“But my husband will be terribly disappointed if you don’t wear your kilt. I tried to tell him what the colours were in the Buchanan tartan; but after red, yellow, dark blue, light blue, dark green, light green, purple and puce I couldn’t remember any more. I told my husband there were quite a lot more colours in it, and he was very very interested. I said it was really brighter than the Macmillan tartan and he said he couldn’t believe that was possible. Oh, how d’ye do, Mr Menzies? I’m glad to see you haven’t left off the kilt to work at your plans. How are you getting along?”

“I’ll be able to give you quite a good idea of what I’m trying to do by the end of the week, Mrs Royde.”

“I’m so glad. We’re both of us so keenly interested.”

The fantastic sum of £3,000 once more became credible to Robert Menzies. His dark eyes glittered.