The two men stood with the background of dark figures behind, while the inspector who was at the head of the party advanced towards them. Robbie, with his long beard and his cloak over his shoulder, was the one upon whom all eyes were fixed. One of the policemen held him firm by the arm. His countenance was dark, his air sullen, like a wild beast taken in the toils. The other by his side, almost spruce in his loose coat, his clean-shaven face seeking no shadow, facing the enemy with a half-smile upon it, easy, careless, fearing no evil—produced an effect quite contrary to that which the dark and bearded brigand made upon the officers of the law. Who could doubt that it was he who was the son of the house, “led away” by the truculent ruffian by his side? There was no mention of Robbie’s name in the warrant. And the sight of Robbie’s mother, and her defence of her threshold, had touched the hearts{347} even of the police. To take away this ruffian, to leave her her son in peace, poor old lady, relieving her poor little quiet house of the horror that had stolen into it—the inspector certainly felt that he would be doing a good service to his neighbour as well as obeying the orders of the law.

“The one with the beard,” he said, looking at a paper which he held in his hand—“that is him. Secure him, Green. Stand by, men; be on your guard; he knows what he’s about—— ah!” The inspector breathed more freely when the handcuffs clicked on Robert Ogilvy’s wrists, who for his part neither resisted nor answered, but stood looking almost stupidly at the scene, and then down upon his hands when they were secured. The other by his side put up a hand to his face, as if overwhelmed by the catastrophe, and fell a little backward, overcome it seemed with distress—as Robbie ought to have done, had this and not the ruffian in the beard been he.

Mrs Ogilvy had been leaning on Susie’s shoulder, incapable of more, her heart almost ceasing to beat, all her strength gone; but when the words, “the one with the beard,” reached dully and slowly to her comprehension, she made but one bound, pushing with both arms every one away from her, and with a shriek appeared in the midst of the group. “It is my son,” she cried, “my son, my son! It is Robbie Ogilvy and no one else. It is my son, my son, my son!” She{348} flung herself upon him, raving as if she had suddenly gone mad in her misery, and tried to pluck off with her weak hands the iron bands from his wrists. Her cries rang out, silencing every other sound. “It is my son, my son, my son!—--”

“I am very sorry, madam; it may be your son, and still it may be the man we want,” the inspector said.

And then another shrill woman’s voice burst forth from behind. “You fools, he’s escaping! Don’t you see?”—the speaker clapped her hands with a sound that rang over their heads. “Don’t you see! It’s easy to take off a beard. If you waste another moment, he’ll be gone!”

He had almost got beyond the last of the men, retreating very softly backwards, while all the attention was concentrated upon Robbie and his mother. But he allowed himself to be pushed forward again at the sound of this voice, as if he had had no such intention. A snarl like that of a furious dog curled up his lip at the side for a moment; but he did not change his aspect—the game was not yet lost.

“There are folk here,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, still plucking at the handcuffs, while Robbie stood silent, saying nothing—“there are folk here who have known him from his cradle, that will tell you he’s Robert Ogilvy: there are my servants—there is the minister, here present God knows why or wherefore: they know—he’s been absent from his home many a day; but he’s{349} Robert Ogilvy: no the other. If he’s Robert Ogilvy he is not the other: if he’s my son he’s not that man. And he is my son, my son, my son! I swear it to you—and the minister. Mr Logan, tell them——”

Mr Logan’s mind was much disturbed. He felt that providence itself had sent him here; but he was slow to make up his mind what to say. He wanted time to speak and to explain. “I have every reason to think that is Robert Ogilvy,” he said; “but I never saw him with a beard; and what he may have been doing all these years——”

“Mr Inspector,” cried Mrs Ainslie, panting with excitement, close to the officer’s side. “Listen to me: as it chances, I know the man. There is no one here but I who knows the man. It shows how little you know if you think that idiot is Lew. I’m a respectable lady of this place, but I’ve been in America, and I know the man. I’ve seen him—I’ve seen him tried for his life and get off; and if you drivel on like that, he’ll get off again. That Lew!” she cried, with a hysterical laugh,—“Lew the devil, Lew the road-agent! That man’s like a sheep. Do you hear me, do you hear me? You’ll let him escape again.”

Now was the time for Robbie to speak, for his mother to speak, and say, “That is the man!” But Mrs Ogilvy was absorbed tearing in vain at the handcuffs, repeating unconsciously her exclamation, “My son, my son!” And he stood looking down upon her{350} and her vain struggle, and upon his own imprisoned hands. I doubt whether she knew what was passing, or was conscious of anything but of one thing—which was Robbie in those disgraceful bonds. But he in his dull soul, forced into enlightenment by the catastrophe, was very conscious of everything, and especially that he was betrayed—that he himself was being left to bear the brunt, and that his friend in his character was stealing away.

Janet had been kept back, partly by fright and astonishment, partly by the police and Andrew, the last of whom had a fast hold upon her gown, and bade her under his breath to “Keep out o’t—keep out o’t; we can do nothing:” but this restraint she could no longer bear. Her desire to be in the midst of everything, to be by her mistress’s side, to have her share of what was going on, would have been enough for her, even if she felt, as Andrew did, that she could do no good. But Janet was of no such opinion. Was she not appealed to, as one whose testimony would put all right? She pushed her way from among the men, pulling her cotton gown, which tore audibly, out of Andrew’s hand. “Sir, here am I: let me speak,” she said. “This is Mr Robert Ogilvy, that I’ve known since ever he was born. He came home the 15th of June, the same day many weary years before as he ran away. The other gentleman is Mr Lewis, his friend, that followed him{351} here about a month ago at the most, a real fine good-hearted gentleman, too, if maybe he has been a little wild. O............