But Moira stood dazed. "But, Papa, you have not told me what is wrong
with Allan." Her voice was quiet, but with a certain insistence in it
that at once irritated her father and compelled his attention.

"Tut, tut, Moira, I have just said I do not know."

"Is he ill, Papa?" Again the girl's voice grew faint.

"No, no, not ill. I wish he were! I mean it is some business matter you
cannot understand. But it must be serious if Mr. Rae asks my presence
immediately. So you must hasten, child."

In less than half an hour Donald and the cart were waiting at the door,
and Moira stood in the hall with her father's bag ready packed. "Oh, I
am glad," she said, as she helped her father with his coat, "that Allan
is not ill. There can't be much wrong."

"Wrong! Read that, child!" cried the father impatiently.

She took the letter and read, her face reflecting her changing emotions,
perplexity, surprise, finally indignation. "'A matter for the police,'"
she quoted, scornfully, handing her father the letter. "'A matter for
the police' indeed! My but that Mr. Rae is the clever man! The police!
Does he think my brother Allan would cheat?--or steal, perhaps!" she
panted, in her indignant scorn.

"Mr. Rae is a careful man and a very able lawyer," replied her father.

"Able! Careful! He's an auld wife, and that's what he is! You can tell
him so for me." She was trembling and white with a wrath her father had