“I can’t understand why they don’t ask me to be Convener of the Roads Committee,” he used to declare from time to time.

Yet the explanation was simple enough. His fellow-councillors were determined to save the ratepayers the expense of putting the Glenbogle road in good order merely for the benefit of Ben Nevis, his castle and the cottages of his dependants being all that it served.

“Stop a moment, Johnnie,” he bellowed to his driver when the Daimler reached the turning that crossed the bridge over the Bogle and wound up the Pass of Ballochy. “What about finding out if these hikers have cleared away from Loch Hoo?” he suggested to his guests.

“If we do that, Donald,” Kilwhillie demurred nervously, “we may be rather late getting back for lunch.” He was determined that Beatrice MacDonald should not be given the slightest excuse to lecture him again on his encouragement of her husband’s autocratic violence.

“Perhaps you’re right, Hugh. All right, Johnnie. Drive on. I do want to be back in good time,” he admitted, “in case my beaters have spotted the whereabouts of these Scottish Nationalists. I told MacIsaac to get a report in by two o’clock, and then after lunch, if there’s any prospect of good sport, we’ll have a jolly afternoon.”

“Your idea is to throw them into the nearest loch, isn’t it?” Chester Royde asked.

“Ah well, I’m afraid I’ve got a disappointment for you, Royde, over that. Yes, the suggestion seemed to worry my wife rather. She seemed to think they might be drowned. So I promised her I wouldn’t throw them into the loch.”

“That’s a pity,” said Chester Royde.

“Yes, it is a pity, but it can’t be helped. However, we’ll think of something else to do to them.”

“Sure thing.”

“I don’t know why you’re such a smarty over Scottish Nationalists, Chester Royde,” his wife snapped crossly. “You don’t even know what they are.”

“I certainly don’t,” the young financier admitted. “But if our friend Ben Nevis thinks they ought to be bumped off, that goes with me.”

“They’re a kind of tartan Bolshie, if you know what I mean,” the Chieftain explained.

“Communists, eh?” said Royde.

“That sort of thing, only rather worse because they ought to know better. I mean to say they don’t come from lower classes. They’re agitators. Their great grievance is that Scotland isn’t independent of England. Well, of course the idea is ludicrous. If there was the slightest reason for Scotland to be independent, people like Kilwhillie and myself would have sent the fiery cross round long ago and called out the clans.”

“But are there any clans left to call out?” Carrie asked, a noticeable tartness in her tone. “I thought that people like Kilwhillie and you drove them out of Scotland long ago.”