When Myrtle appeared in the front courtyard about a quarter of an hour after the Daimler had started for Knocknacolly the trimness of her check cream and brown skirt, the turnery of her legs, the deep carnation of her cheeks, the flash of her dark eyes, and the particularly provocative tilt of her hat combined to quicken faintly the muscle-bound heart of Lieutenant Murdoch MacDonald, R.N., who was receiving from a cocker spaniel the only kind of emotional response by which he was not embarrassed. Myrtle realized at once that he was mustering the words to suggest his company on her walk and anticipated him by waving her stick and hurrying along toward the drive.

It was just after she had turned off into the narrow grass-grown rocky road up Glenbristle that Myrtle saw the coruscation of the Macmillan and Buchanan tartans, and at once decided that the two kilted figures walking towards her were the young men Carrie had sent her to warn against the vengeance of Ben Nevis. If the slightest doubt remained it vanished when she came face to face with Alan Macmillan.

“Pardon me,” she said. “But I have a letter for you two gentlemen from my sister-in-law, Mrs Royde. At least, I have a letter for Mr Buchanan. Which is Mr Buchanan?” Myrtle asked, trying to look as if she really had not the slightest idea.

A weight descended upon the soul of James Buchanan as he put out his hand for the letter. He told himself he had known all the time that the hundred-dollar bill had been a mistake for a ten-dollar bill. Even that was five times as much as the largest voluntary donation he had yet received for the Scottish Brotherhood of Action.

“Mrs Royde is so very sorry she couldn’t give you the warning herself,” Myrtle said as James passed the letter to Alan.

“It’s very kind of her,” he said, “but my friend and I are not at all in awe of people like Mr MacDonald of Ben Nevis.”

“Not at all,” Alan said emphatically, his blue eyes kindled to what Myrtle found an entrancing fire by the flame of poetic action. “We appreciate very much the trouble Mrs Royde has taken, and the trouble you have taken,” he added with what Myrtle found an entrancingly awkward bow, “but I think I may say that Ben Nevis has more to fear from us than we from him.”

“A great deal more,” James Buchanan muttered grimly.

“But I don’t think you two realize what kind of a man Ben Nevis is,” said Myrtle. “Will we sit down for a few minutes and discuss the matter? I’m dying to sit down for a few minutes.”

A suitable bank of grass was discovered and the three of them paid homage to Scotland’s national pastime by going into committee.