The Amazons of Thrums 67

round-room. It was John Dunwoodie, looking
very sly. Probably there was not, even in
Thrums, a cannier man than Dunwoodie. His
religious views were those of Cruickshanks, but
he went regularly to church “on the off-chance
of there being a God after all; so I’m safe, what-
ever side may be wrong.”

“This is the man,” explained a policeman,
“who brought the alarm. He admits himself
having been in Tilliedrum just before we started.”

“Your name, my man?” the sheriff demanded.

“It micht be John Dunwoodie,” the tinsmith
answered, cautiously.

But is at 9”

‘TI dinna say it’s no.”

“You were in Tilliedrum this evening?”

““T micht hae been.”

SVche VOU”

“ Pll swear to nothing.”

“ Why not?”

“* Because I’m a canny man.”

“Into the cell with him,” Halliwell cried, los-
ing patience.

“Leave him to me,” said the sheriff. “I
understand the sort of man. Now, Dunwoodie,
what were you doing in Tilliedrum?”

“T was taking my laddie down to be prenticed
to a writer there,” answered Dunwoodie, falling
into the sheriff’s net.

‘What are you yourself?”

“I micht be a tinsmith to trade.”

‘“And. you, a mere tinsmith, dare to tell me
that a lawyer was willing to take your son into
his office? Be cautious, Dunwoodie.”