“Very good, madam. Pardon me, madam, but is Ben Nevis aware that dinner has been postponed until half-past eight?”

“No; you had better tell him at once.”

This time a definitely sharp tremour ran through Toker’s solid shape.

“I will inform Ben Nevis, madam,” he said gloomily.

The Reverend Ninian Fletcher was a venerable clergyman who for the last twelve years had been the private chaplain at the Castle, an unexacting spiritual task to which had been added the somewhat more exacting mental task of coaching the sons of Ben Nevis in their holidays.

“Ah, Mr Fletcher, I’m so sorry to disturb you,” said Mrs MacDonald when he came into her room. “But I need your help.”

“It is always at your service,” said the old Episcopalian divine.

“You have heard about these hikers whom Donald has shut up in the dungeons?”

“I have indeed. May I say that I was a little startled by the news?”

“You couldn’t have been more startled by it than I was, Mr Fletcher. However, I am glad to say Donald at once realized that his original plan to keep them shut up for a week on bread and water was not feasible.”

“Dear me, was that his original plan?”

“It was. However, he has now entrusted their release to me.”

“A very wise move, I venture to think.”

“Yes, if it is not too late.”

“Too late?”

“To bring the matter to a pleasant conclusion,” Mrs MacDonald explained. “Obviously, if these people desire to make themselves unpleasant, Ben Nevis has given them the opportunity. I understand Colonel Lindsay-Wolseley pointed out to my husband that he was exposing himself to all kinds of unpleasantness in the way of actions for damages, but he was in one of his headstrong moods and refused to listen to Colonel Wolseley’s advice.”

Mr Fletcher shook his venerable head.

“I gather that Kilwhillie encouraged him,” Mrs MacDonald went on.

“Dear me, I’m sorry to hear that.”