It was morning before Mr. Traill had the glimmer of an idea to
take with him on this unlucky business. An hour before the
opening of court he crossed the bridge into High Street, which
was then as picturesquely Gothic and decaying and overpopulated
as the Cowgate, but high-set, wind-swept and sun-searched, all
the way up the sloping mile from Holyrood Palace to the Castle.
The ridge fell away steeply, through rifts of wynds and closes,
to the Cowgate ravine on the one hand, and to Princes Street's
parked valley on the other. Mr. Traill turned into the narrow
descent of Warriston Close. Little more than a crevice in the
precipice of tall, old buildings, on it fronted a business house
whose firm name was known wherever the English language was read:
"W. and R. Chambers, Publishers."
From top to bottom the place was gas-lit, even on a sunny spring
morning, and it hummed and clattered with printing-presses. No
one was in the little anteroom to the editorial offices beside a
young clerk, but at sight of a red-headed, freckle-faced Heriot
laddie of Bobby's puppyhood days Mr. Traill's spirits rose.
"A gude day to you, Sandy McGregor; and whaur's your auld twin
conspirator, Geordie Ross?"
"He's a student in the Medical College, Mr. Traill. He went by
this meenit to the Botanical Garden for herbs my grandmither has
aye known without books." Sandy grinned in appreciation of this
foolishness, but he added, with Scotch shrewdness, "It's gude for
the book-prenting beesiness.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153