“A beautiful place and a beautiful day,” Bony commented.

“ ’Tis so,” agreed the ancient indifferently. The tired eyes took in the new guest from his black hair to his shoes, and into them crept that gleam of hope. “You got any brass?”

TheYorkshireman’s name for money was startling, for there was no trace of the Yorkshire accent in the quavering voice.

“Not very much,” he was told, Bony recalling the request made by the son.

“Pity. No one seems to have any money. You got any guts?”

“Not much of that, either. Supposing I had-if you mean courage?”

The old man glanced furtively at the open window next to Bony’s bedroom. Then he moved his chair closer and whispered:

“I know where there’s lashings of booze. Jim and Ferris are going off to Dunkeld tonight, and the old woman goes to bed about ten. What say we raid the spirit store? It’s only just along the passage and I’ve got a key. Had it for years. They never found it on me. They don’t know I’ve got it. Inside the store there’s stacks of whisky and brandy and wine-stacks and stacks. Let’s have a night tonight, eh? Iain’t had a real drink in years and I’m as dry as a wax match. We could lock ourselves in there and drink and drink. Shall us?”

The voice was coaxing, wheedling. The eyes were now wide and imploring. The prisoner in the chair was a prisoner in a dying body. What an escape the prisoner envisaged, what an escape for an hour or so! There was pity in Bonaparte’s heart but no relenting, although he said:

“I must think it over.”

“Think it over!” scoffed the old man. “Think over a proposition like that! Free grog and as much as you can down in a coupler hours! And you want to think it over! The modern generation’s soft, that’s what it is. No guts-no-no- Whatd’you say your name is?”