“I’ll do that!” I declared, and I meant it.

Two hours later my train rumbled out of the station and headed for Scotland.  I had been supremely satisfied with my progress during the day, but when I began to analyse the situation I was unable to discover any sound basis for self-congratulation.

I merely had ascertained her probable location.  That did not improve my prospects.  I had not the slightest reason to believe that she had changed her attitude toward me, and I had no right to assume that she would receive, much less listen to me.  She might be married, and probably was.  I thought of these things and fell from the fool’s heaven to which I had climbed.

But on I went toward Scotland.  I would drink the cup to its lees.  I foil into a troubled sleep, and after a miserable night did not know whether to be pleased or scared that I had finished the longer stage of my journey.

The early morning train from out Edinburgh’s dingy station carried one passenger who paid small attention to the scenery between the beautiful capital of Scotland and its famous university town.  My one thought when we crossed over the great bridge which spans the Firth of Forth was that it was unconscionably long, and that the train slackened its speed in taking it.

Then we came to a junction within sight of St. Andrews, and when I was informed by the railway agent that I would have to wait half an hour for a connection I told him that I would walk down the track.  He informed me that this was against the law.  Having some familiarity with the monotony with which the laws are enforced in Scotland, I smoked and waited.

The railroad skirts the links of St. Andrews, and from its pictures I recognised the club house.  Disdaining to ask questions or take a carriage, I ordered my luggage to a hotel and started on a brisk walk, hoping thus to brace myself for the ordeal ahead of me.

She was here.  Somewhere in this picturesque old town she was living and breathing that very moment. She had passed through the street which then resounded with my brisk footsteps.  Her name had been Grace Harding.  Was it yet Grace Harding?

I ran square into Carter!

“Why, my dear Smith!” he exclaimed, clutching at his monocle which came as near falling as it well could and remain in place.  “Why don’t you call ‘Fore!’ when you drive ahead like this?  You’re in Scotland, my dear fellow!”

I begged his pardon, though of course it was not necessary.  We heartily shook hands—­at least he did.

We were on a corner of a crooked and cobblestoned street which twists around the side of a hill.  There is a small store on this corner, and its neatly pointed red bricks and shining plate glass are sharp in contrast to the ancient and somewhat dilapidated structures which surround it.  I recall these facts distinctly, and I can see even now every attitude and expression on the part of Carter.