“Well, if you have a hunch that the hikers have shut Chester and Ben Nevis and the rest in Uaimh na Phrionnsa …”

“No, no, Carrie, you can’t do it. I’m sorry, darling, but you don’t get that kind of gurgle like the last drop of water running out of a bath.”

“Alan, what do you think?” Carrie went on. “Wouldn’t it be worth while to see if your hunch is right?”

“I’ll climb up where the ground drops down in front,” said Alan. “I did it the year before last.”

But when in the road that branched off from Glenbogle on the farther side of Ben Booey from the Castle he pointed to what at two miles away appeared the sheer precipice in front of the Prince’s Cave, Myrtle declared she’d rather leave Chester there as long as Rip Van Winkle than that Alan should attempt such a climb.

“It’s not really at all difficult,” he assured her. “You can’t see the way up from here.”

And before Myrtle could argue any more he jumped out of the car, telling them to wait with it, and set off at a rapid pace up the spur of the mighty ben toward the precipice before the cave.

“If anything happens to him, Carrie, I’ll never forgive you,” Myrtle declared almost tearfully.

“Nothing will happen to him, honeybunch, and think what a story we’ll have to tell Chester if he is in that cave, and after all Chester Royde Senior and Mrs Chester Royde Senior have to be considered. You’ll want a bit of help from Chester when you go home and announce you’re going to marry a wild Highlander with an empty sporran.”

It happened that, just as the poet scrambled over the top of the precipice in front of the cave, Percy Buckham was telling his prisoners that when darkness came they would have to move to new quarters on the other side of the glen.

“I want to give you the pleasure, Mr MacDonald, of seeing with your own eyes my forces march into Glenbogle Castle, pull down that flag of yours with half the Zoo on it, and hoist the crossed staffs of the N.U.H. The escort will arrive in an hour.”

Buckham turned his back on the prisoners and marching out of the cave came face to face with Alan Macmillan.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

And Alan hit out, catching Percy Buckham fairly on the chin.

“Oh, boy, what a K.O.!” shouted Chester Royde exultantly as Percy Buckham went down on his back.

The congratulations Alan received upon his masterly blow were more than his pugilistic skill deserved. Anybody who hit Percy Buckham was almost bound to hit his chin.