In the meantime the mayor of Rahnstädt, who was chief-magistrate in
Alick's district, had arrived at Pümpelhagen, bringing Slus'uhr with
him as clerk. The mayor had made good use of his time; before starting
he had sent a detective to all the public houses and shops which
farm-labourers were wont to frequent, to find out whether the labourer
Regel from Pümpelhagen had been there, and thus he had discovered
enough to assist him in his enquiry. Regel had come to his office about
four o'clock on the previous afternoon, had got a passport from him,
and had showed him the parcel of money, which was sewed up in a piece
of black wax-cloth, and he had seen that the seal on the packet was
still intact. The man--who was of a very talkative disposition--had
told him, he was to walk all night, and that considering the time of
year was a good deal to require of any one, but still the fellow was
very strong and healthy looking; there was no fear of its being too
dark for a traveller to see his way, the snow covering the ground made
it so light; he had advised the man to set out at once, but he had not
started till nearly midnight. Regel had gone into a public house, and
had bought a glass of schnaps; at nine o'clock he was seen standing in
front of a shop drinking brandy, giving himself airs, and talking of
the money he was carrying, he even went so far as to show the parcel to
one of the shopmen. Where he had gone next the mayor did not yet know,
but looked upon it as an undoubted fact that the man had got very
drunk, and asked Alick and Hawermann whether he was in the habit of
drinking.--"I don't know," answered Alick, "my bailiff can answer that
question better than I."--The squire's tone was so peculiar that
Hawermann looked at him enquiringly, and seemed as though about to say
something, but changing his mind he merely said to the mayor, that he
had never noticed anything of the kind in the man, nor yet had he ever
heard of his being drunk; he had little to say against any of the
Pümpelhagen labourers in that respect, and least of all against
Regel.--"That may be," said the mayor, "but the man was drunk for all
that. Once is the first time, as we say--he was certainly drunk when he
came to my office. Will you send for his wife."
His wife came. She was a young and nice-looking woman; but a very few
years ago she had been the prettiest girl in the village, neat, trim,
and frank, like every Mecklenburg country-maiden, now children and
housework had stolen away all the roses from her cheeks, and had
made her thin and angular--married women soon grow old in our
country-districts. She also looked sad and anxious. Hawermann was very
sorry for her, so he went to her, and said: "Don't be afraid, Dame
Regel. Tell the truth, and all will be well."--"Lawk a daisy! Mr.
Hawermann, what is it? What's the matter? What has my husband
done?"--"Tell me, Dame Regel, does your husband often drink more brandy
than is good for him?" asked the mayor.--"No, Sir, he was never known
to have done such a thing in his life. He never drinks brandy, we have
none in the house; the only time he ever tastes it, is during the
harvest when he gets it from the farm the same as the other men."--"Had
he not had some brandy yesterday before he left home?" asked the mayor
again.--"No, Sir. He had his dinner, and then went away about half-past
two. No, Sir .... but stop. I didn't see it, but still .... I remember
now! Yesterday evening when I looked into the cupboard, I found the
brandy-bottle empty."--"But I thought you told me you had no brandy in
the house?" asked the mayor.--"Neither we have; that was the remains of
the brandy used at the funeral; we buried our eldest little girl last
Friday, and some of the brandy was left. Ah, how miserable he was! How
very miserable he was!"--"You think that your husband drank it?"--"Yes,
Sir, who else could have done it?"
The case was made out so far, and Dame Regel was allowed to go.--"We've
got out the story of the brandy," whispered Slus'uhr to Alick, winking
and blinking slyly at the mayor, "I only hope that we'll make out as
much about the missing money."--"Take down the examination, clerk,"
said the mayor quietly, pointing to a seat. "Let the labourer Regel be
sent for, and put upon oath."--"Mr. Mayor," cried Alick, springing to
his feet, "I don't understand what the brandy has got to do with my
money. The fellow has stolen it!"--"That's just what I want to find
out," replied the mayor calmly. "Has he stolen it, or has he been
acting for some one else, or was he in a condition to carry out either
of these actions," and going up to the young squire, he said kindly but
decidedly: "Mr. von Rambow, a man who had made up his mind to steal
three hundred pounds wouldn't go and get drunk first. And then I must
remind you that it is my duty as a magistrate to look after the
interests of the accused, as much as after yours."
Regel was now brought into the room. He was deadly pale, but had lost
all the nervousness he had shown in the morning when the old bailiff
was questioning him, and looked as stern and hard as if his figure had
been hewn out of granite. He confessed that he had drunk all the brandy
that had been left in the cupboard at home; that he had had more at
Rahnstädt; that he had been still in the wine-shop at nine o'clock;
that he had spent the night with his friends, and had set out on his
journey again about six in the morning; but he remained true to his
first story, and maintained that two men had taken the money from him
by force in Gallin wood. Whilst this last part of the deposition was
being taken down, the door opened, and Dame Regel, rushing up to her
husband, threw herself into his arms. In Mecklenburg courts of justice
strict formality is not considered necessary, so there are no police to
prevent the occurrence of incidents of this kind.--"Joe! Joe! Have you
made your wife and children miserable for ever?"--"Oh, Molly, Molly, I
didn't do it. My hands are clean. Did you ever know me steal?"--"Tell
these gentlemen the whole truth, Joe."--The labourer hesitated, turned
dusky red and then pale again, looking shyly and uncertainly at his
wife: "Mary, did I ever take what was not my own?"--Dame Regel let her
hands fall from his shoulders: "No, Joe, you never did that. You never
did that. But you have told lies; you have often told me a lie." She
hid her face in her apron, and went out; Hawermann followed her. The
labourer was removed.
The mayor had not disturbed the meeting between the husband and wife,
it was against rules, but it might furnish him with a clue, and show
the truth. Alick started, and began to walk rapidly up and down the
room when he heard Dame Regel say: "You have told lies, you have often
told me a lie." His conscience reproached him, he hardly knew why on
this evening of all others, but he felt that he too had never stolen
anything, and that he too had _lied_. But like every man who is not
upright in heart, the moment his conscience pricked him, he lied to
himself again, and denied the accusation his conscience had brought
against him. He and the labourer were very different; he had only told
a _fib_ for his wife's sake, to save her uneasiness, while the labourer
had _lied_ for his own sake.
Ah, Mr. von Rambow, if you remain as you are, the devil will yet reap a
goodly harvest in your soul!
Slus'uhr, having finished, slipped up to Alick, and whispered: "Yes,
Mr. von Rambow, the man who lies will also steal."--Alick shivered at
the words; partly because of the turmoil in his own heart, and partly
because he knew how very like stealing Slus'uhr's business was; he was
not merely astonished, he was horrified at the impudence of the man. He
would not have been so startled however, if he had only heard the
stories people told of the attorney.
Nothing more could be done for the moment, as all the witnesses,
including the labourer's friends, were in Rahnstädt, the mayor
therefore ordered that the prisoner should remain at Pümpelhagen that
night, locked up in some secure place, and that he should be brought to
Rahnstädt on the next day.--"Then let him be put in the front-cellar of
the manor-house," said Alick to Hawermann who had come back.--"Wouldn't
it be better, Sir, to leave him in the room where I put him before, in
the farm-house, as the window is barred with iron ....."--"No,"
answered Alick sharply, "the cellar-windows are also grated, and I wish
to prevent his having the opportunity of speaking to his friends which
he might have at the farm."--"I'm a light sleeper, Mr. von Rambow, and
if you want to make sure, a trustworthy man might guard the door."--"I
have already told you what I desire you to do. The matter is far too
important for me to trust to your light sleep, or to the guard that a
comrade of that rascal would keep."--Hawermann looked at him in
surprise, said, "as you will," and left the room.
It was about ten o'clock in the evening, supper had long been on the
table, Mary Möller had groaned and moaned over everything being spoilt,
and Frida was rather cross because of having to wait so long for news,
and because of the supper; the only thing that kept her patient was
talking to Frank. At length the gentlemen came back, and Frida went to
the mayor, and asked: "He didn't steal the money, did he? I hope
not."--"No, Madam," answered the mayor calmly and decidedly, "the
labourer didn't steal the money; it was stolen from him, or he lost
it."--"Thank God!" she said from the bottom of her heart, "I'm so glad
that the man isn't a thief. I should hate the thought of there being
dishonest people in the village."--"Surely you don't imagine that our
people are better than those in other places. They're the same
everywhere," said Alick.--"Mr. von Rambow," said Hawermann, who had
come to supper, "our people are perfectly honest; I have been here long
enough to be convinced of that. There hasn't been a single case of
theft known in all the years that I've been at Pümpelhagen."--"Ah!
That's what you've always told me, and now--yes now, you see that my
foolish credulity has made me lose three hundred pounds. If you really
know the people so well, what induced you to recommend me to use that
man of all others as my messenger?"--Hawermann stared at him: "It seems
to me," he said, "that you want to make out that the loss of the money
is my fault, but I cannot acknowledge that to be the case. It is true,"
he went on, his face reddening with anger, "that I advised you to send
Regel to Rostock, but my only reason for doing so, was that you have
always hitherto used him as a messenger in your money transactions; he
has been more than ten times at Gürlitz for you, and attorney Slus'uhr
can bear witness to how often you have sent to him by that man."--Frida
looked quickly at Slus'uhr when she heard this, and the attorney
returned her gaze; neither of them spoke, and different as their
thoughts were, it seemed that each could read the other's soul. Frida
saw in the sly sinister expression of the attorney's eyes, that he was
a man who would not scruple to use his power over her husband to the
uttermost, while the attorney on his side read in the clear thoughtful
eyes of the lady of the house, that she was the person he had to fear
most in the prosecution of his designs. Alick stifled a hasty answer to
what the bailiff had said, when he saw the old man's grave determined
face, and Frida's look of enquiry. Slus'uhr was also silent, but
watched anxiously lest his prey should escape him. Thus Frank and the
mayor were the only people at table who were unaware that Hawermann's
words had touched a sore subject, and they were the only ones who were
able to keep up a conversation. The party separated as soon as supper
was over; the mayor spent the night at the manor-house.
Everyone at Pümpelhagen was sound asleep with the exception of two
pairs of married people. These were Mr. and Mrs. von Rambow, and the
labourer and his wife. Alick and Frida were sitting at their own fire
side, he longing to tell his wife all that weighed upon him and made
him miserable; to tell the whole truth for once. But he could not. She
entreating him to confide in her now that she knew so much, now that
she knew of his money difficulties; she said that she would economise,
but begged him to give up all transactions with Pomuchelskopp and
Slus'uhr, and to consult Hawermann who would be able to advise him what
to do. Alick always did things by halves; he never told a downright
lie, and yet he did not tell the truth. He did not deny his present
need of three hundred pounds, but said that no one could help his means
being straightened after having met with so considerable a loss. He had
not had time to consider what was best to be done, and could not yet
see what he should sell to meet the claim--but he never said that he
had already sold some fine wheat and had got the money for it too.
He assured her that his business relations with Pomuchelskopp and
Slus'uhr--he never spoke of David--could do him no harm; it was an old
story now with both of them--he did not tell her of his new dealings
with Pomuchelskopp--and he had found both very civil in their treatment
of him, "but," he said in conclusion, "you know it would never
do for me to talk to Hawermann about money matters, it wouldn't be
fitting."--Alick's untruths were more a suppression of the truth than
direct falsehoods, and indeed when putting his arm round his wife's
waist, he assured her that his affairs would soon be in good order; he
was merely saying what he, for the moment, fully believed.--Frida was
sad at heart when she left him.
The other husband and wife were not in a warm room like these; the
labourer was confined in a cold cellar, while his wife knelt at the
window of his prison unheeding the cold drizzling November rain which
was wetting her to the skin, they were not sitting side by side, but
were separated by an iron grating.--"Joe," she whispered through the
grating, "tell the truth."--"They stole it from me," was the
answer.--"Who stole it, Joe?"--"How can I tell?" he said, and it was
the truth; he did not know the name of the woman who had taken the
black pocket-book out of his waistcoat pocket in the full light of day,
when he was reeling along the Gallin road only half conscious of what
he was doing after his potations of the night before, to say nothing of
the two gills of brandy he had taken that morning on an empty stomach.
He could not tell the truth; how could he acknowledge that he, a young
strong man, had allowed a woman to steal three hundred pounds from him
on the public road? He could not do it even to save his life.--"You're
telling me a lie, Joe! If you can't tell me the truth, won't you tell
it to our old bailiff?"--It was impossible, he could not tell him of
all people; especially when he remembered how solemnly he had once
promised Hawermann that he would never again tell a lie. He could not
do it.--"Bring me my file, Mary, and any silver you have"--"What do you
mean, Joe?"--"I'm going to run away."--"Oh, Joe, Joe, will you really
leave me and the babies all alone?"--"I must go, Molly. I'll never get
on here now."--"Only tell the truth, Joe, and all will be well."--"If
you don't bring me the file and some money, I'll kill myself
to-night."--There was much entreaty of her husband here also, as
upstairs in the sitting-room, but the truth remained unspoken, and this
wife left her husband with as sad a heart as the other had done.
Next morning there was great excitement at Pümpelhagen when it became
known that the labourer had escaped. The mayor made arrangements for
his apprehension, and then drove home with the attorney. Alick was
furious, no one knew exactly with whom, but probably with himself, for
it was by his orders that Regel had been locked up in the cellar.
Pomuchelskopp arrived at breakfast time to ask what had really
happened, for, as he said, he had only heard a vague rumour of what had
taken place. Frank received him coldly and stiffly; Alick on the
contrary welcomed him warmly. Pomuchelskopp told many stories of the
shameful way in which the magistrates were befriending the common
people, and of the extreme kindness the mayor of Rahnstädt had always
shown any rogues he had to deal with. He told of thefts which had been
perpetrated on himself or his friends, and ended by saying that he
believed with Hawermann that the labourer had not committed the theft,
"I mean," he said in conclusion, "that he didn't do it for himself; but
was employed by some one else; no labourer would dare to steal such a
large sum as three hundred pounds; the deed would become known too
soon. And so, Mr. von Rambow, I advise you to keep your eye on those
who may have assisted the labourer in his flight, or who even take his
part."--Alick's mind was so restless and upset by anger and anxiety
that it was ready to receive the seeds of suspicion which Pomuchelskopp
was trying to sow. He walked up and down the room, thinking: Yes,
Pomuchelskopp was right, he was well up to things of the kind and
therefore was sure to know best; but who was it who had helped Regel to
escape? He knew no one. Who had taken Regel's part? Why Hawermann, to
be sure, when he said so decidedly that the man must have lost the
money. But when he first heard what had happened he had seized the
fellow by the collar? That might have been all pretence though. And why
did he want to have the man put into the room next his own? Perhaps
that he might speak to him; perhaps that he might help him to run away?
These would have been foolish thoughts for a wise man to have had; but
the devil is "cunning," he does not choose the wise and the strong as
his instruments, but the foolish and weak.
"What is your bailiff saying to that woman, I wonder?" said
Pomuchelskopp, who was looking out at the window.--"It's Dame Regel,"
said Frank, who was standing beside him.--"Yes," said Alick hastily,
"what can he be saying to her? I'd like to know very much."--"It's an
odd thing certainly," remarked Pomuchelskopp.
Hawermann and the labourer's wife were standing in the yard, and he
seemed to be talking earnestly to her; she appeared to be unwilling
to do as he wanted, but at last gave way and followed him to the
manor-house. They entered the room.--"Mr. von Rambow," said Hawermann,
"Dame Regel has just confessed that it was she who helped her husband
to escape last night."--"Yes, Sir," said the woman, moving her hands
and feet about restlessly, "I did. I did, but I couldn't help it, for
he said he'd kill himself if I didn't get him away;" the tears rolled
down her cheeks, and she hid her face in her apron.--"A nice story,"
said Alick harshly. "There seems to have been a regular plot!"--Frank
went to the woman and making her sit down, asked: "Didn't he tell you
where he had spent the night with the money?"--"No, Sir, he told me
nothing, and I know that all he did tell me were lies; the only thing
I know for certain is that he didn't steal the money."--Alick now turned
upon Hawermann and asked: "What made you give the woman an audience
without orders?"--Hawermann was startled at the words, but still more
at the tone of this question: "I thought," he answered calmly, "that it
would be a good thing to find out when and how the man escaped, and so
perhaps discover some indication of his whereabouts."--"Or perhaps to
_give_ an indication," cried Alick, and then he turned away hastily as
though afraid of the consequences of what he had said.--Hawermann had
not understood the sense of the words, but the tone in which they were
uttered hurt him: "I don't know what you mean," he said gravely, "but I
wish you to know that I will not stand being spoken to as you have been
doing both last night and this morning. I took no notice of it
yesterday out of consideration for Mrs. von Rambow, but in the present
company"--here he glanced at Pomuchelskopp--"there is no need for such
forbearance on my part," as soon as he had done speaking he went away
and the labourer's wife followed him. Alick was going after him, but
was stopped by Frank: "What are you going to do, Alick? Just think of
what you said. Your words were even crueller to the old man than he
imagined."--"That was a strong measure," said Pomuchelskopp, as if he
were talking to himself, "a very strong measure for a bailiff; but it's
time for me to go home now," and putting his head out at the window, he
called for his horse. He felt that everything was going on as he wished
at Pümpelhagen.
The horse was brought round. Alick accompanied his neighbour to the
door, and Frank remained in the room.--"Your cousin seems to be a most
excellent young man," said Pomuchelskopp, "but he knows nothing of the
world, he appears to be ignorant of what is suitable conduct in master
and servant." So saying, he rode away.
Alick rejoined his cousin, and tossing the cap he had put on to go to
the door, as a protection against the cold morning air, into a corner
of the sofa, exclaimed: "A d--d rascally story! The devil take the
whole business! There's no one to be trusted."--"Alick," said Frank
gently, as he went up to him, "you are doing your people a grievous
wrong, you are doing yourself wrong, dear cousin, by nursing such
unjust suspicious in your kind heart."--"Unjust? What do you mean? I've
been robbed of three hundred pounds"--"The money has been lost, Alick,
by the thoughtlessness and folly of a labourer."--"_Lost_, did you say?
Are you going to repeat the tale my bailiff has thought fit to tell
me?"--"Everyone is of the same opinion, Alick; the mayor himself
says ....."--"Don't talk to me about what that old fool said. If I had
only conducted the examination myself I should have discovered
something before now; if I had even spoken to the woman first this
morning she'd have told a different story; but now ... It's nothing
more nor less than bribery!"--"Stop, Alick!" cried Frank sternly.
"You've hinted at that already this morning but fortunately were not
understood. You are now making an open accusation, and I must know what
your grounds are for making such a charge."--"I have good reasons for
doing so."--"Just consider for a moment. You are accusing an honest old
man; you are unjustly and hastily casting a slur on a man who has lived
for sixty years in the world and whose honour in unblemished."--Alick
grew calmer and tried to excuse himself: "I never said that he had done
it, only that he might have done it."--"It's just as bad to suspect him
of perhaps doing such a thing; the suspicion hurts you as much as it
does the old man. Only think, Alick," he went on laying his hand
affectionately on his cousin's shoulder, "how long and faithfully
Hawermann has looked after your father's and your own interests. To
me," he added in a low tone, "he has been more than that, he has been a
true friend and a painstaking teacher."
Alick walked up and down the room. He felt he was wrong--at least for
the moment--but he was too much of a moral coward to acknowledge that
he wanted to throw the blame of his own faults and follies on
Hawermann's shoulders, so taking refuge in the mode of action commonly
employed by weak souls when in a difficulty such as the present, he
determined to carry the war into the enemy's country. He once more shut
his heart to the pure unvarnished truth, selling it, as it were, for a
piece of silver.
"Of course," he said, "Hawermann is much more to you than he
is to me."--"What do you mean?" asked Frank looking at him
quickly.--"Nothing," said Alick. "I only meant that you will soon call
him, 'father.'" The worst of this speech was the intention he showed in
it to wound the man who had cared for him enough to tell him the truth.
He had used the gossip he had heard from Pomuchelskopp because it was
the only weapon he knew of that would answer the purpose.--Frank
reddened. The secret he had deemed so holy was dragged into the common
light of day at such a time and in such a way as to make the intended
insult the more apparent. The blood rushed to his face, he struggled to
command himself, and said: "That has nothing to do with what we are
speaking about."--"How do you make that out?" asked Alick. "To my mind
it fully explains the warmth with which you defend Mr. Hawermann."--"He
needs no defence. His whole life is his best defence."--"To say nothing
of his beautiful daughter," said Alick striding up and down the room,
and congratulating himself upon the success of his last remark.--Frank
was very angry, but he forced himself to say quietly: "Do you know
her?"--"Yes; no; that is, I've seen her. I met her at the parsonage,
and she often comes to see my wife. She's a very pretty girl upon my
honour. I first noticed her when she was quite a child at my father's
funeral."--"Did you not try to become better acquainted with her when
you found that I loved her?"--"No, Frank, no. Because I knew that
nothing could come of such a love affair."--"Then you knew more than I
did."--"I know even more than that. I know how you have been hunted and
caught, and how they tried to make sure of you."--"Who told you that?
But why do I ask? Such scandalous gossip can only proceed from one
house in this neighbourhood--now that we are talking on this subject I
will tell you frankly that I intend to marry the girl if she will have
me."--"She won't say no! She'll take good care not to say no!" cried
Alick angrily. "And so you are really going to be such a fool? You
seriously intend to bring this disgrace on our family?"--"Take care
what you say, Alick!" said Frank passionately. "I don't see, however,
how the matter affects you."--"What? _I_ am the head of our old family,
and do you think that it is nothing to me when a younger member of our
race disgraces himself by a mésalliance?"--Again Frank commanded
himself, and said: "You yourself married for love, and nothing
else."--"That was different," said Alick, who thought he was now
getting the best of the argument. "My wife is my equal in birth; she is
the daughter of an old and noble house, while the girl you love is only
the daughter of my bailiff, and was brought up by the clergyman and his
wife out of charity."--"For shame!" cried Frank. "How dare you treat
misfortune as if it were a crime."--"I don't care," stormed Alick. "I
tell you once for all that I'll never call my bailiff's daughter,
cousin; the wench shall never cross this threshold."--Frank turned
deadly pale, and said with a voice that trembled from suppressed
emotion: "That is enough. You need say no more, we must part. Louisa
shall never cross your threshold, nor I either." With that he went
away. Frida met him at the door, she had heard the loud voices in the
next room and had come to see what was the matter: "Frank, Frank, what
is it?" she asked.--"Good-bye, Frida," he said quickly and went out
across the yard towards the bailiff's house.
"Alick," cried Frida going up to her husband, "what have you been
doing? What have you been doing?"--Alick walked proudly up and down
the room as if conscious of having put the whole world right and of
having shown it the way it ought to go: "I've been showing a young
man," he said, "a young rustic, who has made a fool of himself for the
sake of a fair face, what he is about. I made his position clear to
him."--"Did you dare to do that?" said Frida, sinking into a chair
pale and trembling. She fixed her great clear eyes on her husband
as he continued his triumphal march and went on: "Did you _dare_ to
thrust your petty pride of birth between two noble and loving
souls?"--"Frida," said Alick, whose conscience told him he had done
wrong, but who refused to acknowledge it, "I believe that I have done
my duty."--It is a curious fact that those people who never do their
duty, pride themselves most upon doing it.--"Oh," cried Frida, starting
to her feet, "you have wounded a true and noble heart most sorely.
Alick," she entreated, laying her clasped hands upon his shoulder,
"Frank has gone to the bailiff's house, won't you follow him and say
that you are sorry for having hurt him, and bring him back again to
us?"--"Am I to beg his pardon before my bailiff? No thank you, I'd
rather not do that! It is too good a joke," he said working himself
into a rage, "I've been robbed of three hundred pounds, my bailiff
orders me about, my cousin takes his beloved father-in-law's part, and
now my own wife joins with them against me!"--Frida stared at him, let
her hands fall, drew her shawl round her, and said: "If you won't go, I
will."--As she left the room he called after her: "Go, go, but the old
scoundrel shall leave my service."
When she crossed the yard the horses were being put into Frank's
carriage, and as she entered the parlour Hawermann had just said:
"You'll forget it in time, Mr. von Rambow. Your life has hitherto been
spent in a narrow circle of friends; you should travel--I think that
you ought to do so--and then you'll soon change your mind. But, dear
Frank," the old man added familiarly in memory of old times, "let me
entreat of you not to bring unrest to my child by telling her of
this."--"No, Hawermann, I promise," said Frank, and then Frida came
in.--"Bless me!" cried Hawermann. "I quite forgot. Excuse me, Madam,"
and he left the room.
"He's always so thoughtful, so very thoughtful," said Frida.--"Indeed
he is," answered Frank looking after the old man. The carriage drove up
to the door, but had to wait there for a long time, Mrs. von Rambow and
Frank had so much to say to each other, and when they parted Frida's
eyes were red with weeping, and Frank looked much moved: "Say goodbye
to the good old man for me," he said, and then added in a lower voice,
"and to Alick too." He shook hands with her once more. The carriage
drove away.