'Hi, you, sir,' he cried. 'Come here.' The two rifle-bearers—solemn gillies—brought their weapons to attention.
'By God,' he said, 'it's the man. What's your name? Keep him covered, Angus.'
The gillies duly covered me, and I did not like the look of their wavering barrels. They were obviously as surprised as myself.
I had about half a second to make my plans. I advanced with a very stiff air, and asked him what the devil he meant. No Lowland Scots for me now. My tone was that of an adjutant of a Guards' battalion.
My inquisitor was a tall man in an ulster, with a green felt hat on his small head. He had a lean, well-bred face, and very choleric blue eyes. I set him down as a soldier, retired, Highland regiment or cavalry, old style.
He produced a telegraph form, like the policeman.
'
