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They both shook the consul’s hand, and departed, leaving him staring at the fog into which they had melted as if they were unreal shadows of the past.

II.

The next morning the fog had given way to a palpable, horizontally driving rain, which wet the inside as well as the outside of umbrellas, and caused them to be presented at every conceivable angle as they drifted past the windows of the consulate. There was a tap at the door, and a clerk entered.

“Ye will be in to Sir James MacFen?”

The consul nodded, and added, “Show him in here.”

It was the magnate to whom he had sent the note the previous day, a man of large yet slow and cautious nature, learned and even pedantic, yet far-sighted and practical; very human and hearty in social intercourse, which, however, left him as it found him,–with no sentimental or unbusiness-like entanglements. The consul had known him sensible and sturdy at board meetings and executive councils; logical and convincing at political gatherings; decorous and grave in the kirk; and humorous and jovial at festivities, where perhaps later in the evening, in company with others, hands were clasped over a libation lyrically defined as a “right guid williewaught.” On one of these occasions they had walked home together, not without some ostentation of steadiness; yet when MacFen’s eminently respectable front door had closed upon him, the consul was perfectly satisfied that a distinctly proper and unswerving man of business would issue from it the next morning.

“Ay, but it’s a soft day,” said Sir James, removing his gloves. “Ye’ll not be gadding about in this weather.”

“You got my note of introduction, I suppose?” said the consul, when the momentous topic of the weather was exhausted.

“Oh, ay.”

“And you saw the gentlemen?”

“Ay.”

“And what’s your opinion of–his claims?”

“He’s a fine lad–that Malcolm–a fine type of a lad,” said Sir James, with an almost too effusive confidence. “Ye’ll be thinking so yourself–no doubt? Ay, it’s wonderful to consider the preservation of type so long after its dispersal in other lands. And it’s a strange and wonderful country that of yours, with its plantations–as one might say–of homogeneity unimpaired for so many years, and keeping the old faith too–and all its strange survivals. Ay, and that Kentucky, where his land is–it will be a rich State! It’s very instructing and interesting to hear his account of that remarkable region they call ‘the blue grass country,’ and the stock they raise there. I’m obliged to ye, my friend, for a most edifying and improving evening.”

“But his claim–did he not speak of that?”

“Oh, ay. And that Mr. Custer–he’s a grand man, and an amusing one. Ye’ll be great comrades, you and he! Man! it was delightful to hear him tell of the rare doings and the bit fun ye two had in the old times. Eh, sir, but who’d think that of the proper American consul at St. Kentigern!” And Sir James leaned back in his chair, and bestowed an admiring smile on that official.

The consul thought he began to understand this evasion. “Then you don’t think much of Mr. McHulish’s claim?” he said.

“I’m not saying that.”

“But do you really think a claim based upon a family Bible and a family likeness a subject for serious consideration?”

“I’m not saying THAT either, laddie.”

“Perhaps he has confided to you more fully than he has to me, or possibly you yourself knew something in corroboration of his facts.”

His companion had evidently no desire to be communicative. But the consul had heard enough to feel that he was justified in leaving the matter in his hands. He had given him fair warning. Yet, nevertheless, he would be even more explicit.

“I do not know,” he began, “whether this young McHulish confided to you his great reliance upon some peculiar effect of his presence among the tenants, and of establishing his claim to the property by exciting the enthusiasm of the clan. It certainly struck me that he had some rather exaggerated ideas, borrowed, perhaps, from romances he’d read, like Don Quixote his books of chivalry. He seems to believe in the existence of a clan loyalty, and the actual survival of old feudal instincts and of old feudal methods in the Highlands. He appears to look upon himself as a kind of local Prince Charlie, and, by Jove! I’ve an idea he’s almost as crazy.”