This proved to be a middle-aged man in ancient tweed knickerbockers of an outrageous pattern known locally as the ‘Strathlarrig tartan’. He was obviously a river-keeper, and was advancing with a resolute and minatory air.

Leithen took off his hat with a flourish.

‘Have I the honour, sir, to address the owner of this lovely spot?’ he asked in what he hoped was the true accent of a tripper.

The keeper stopped short and regarded him sternly.

‘What are ye daein’ here?’ he demanded.

‘Picking up a few pictures, sir. I inquired at your lodge, and was told that I might presume upon your indulgence. Pardon me, if I ‘ave presumed too far. If I ‘ad known that the proprietor was at ‘and I would have sought ‘im out and addressed my ‘umble request to ‘imself

‘Ye’re makin’ a mistake. I’m no the laird. The laird’s awa’ about India. But Mr Bandicott – that’s him that’s the tenant – has given strict orders that naebody’s to gang near the watter. I wonder Mactavish at the lodge hadna mair sense.’

‘I fear the blame is mine,’ said the agreeable tourist. ‘I only asked leave to enter the grounds, but the beauty of the scenery attracted me to the river. Never ‘ave I seen a more exquisite spot.’ He waved his arm towards the pool.

‘It’s no that bad. But ye maun awa’ out o’ this. Ye’d better gang by the back road, for fear they see ye frae the hoose.’

Leithen followed him obediently, after presenting him with a cigarette, which he managed to extract without taking his case from his pocket. It should have been a fag, he reflected, and not one of Archie’s special Egyptians. As they walked he conversed volubly.

‘What’s the name of the river?’ he asked. ‘Is it the Strathlarrig?’

‘No, it’s the Larrig, and that bit you like sae weel is the Minister’s Pool. There’s no a pool like it in Scotland.’

‘I believe you. There is not,’ was the enthusiastic reply.

‘I mean for fish. Ye’ll no ken muckle aboot fishin’.’

‘I’ve done a bit of anglin’ at ‘ome. What do you catch here? Jack and perch?’

‘Jack and perch!’ cried the keeper scornfully. ‘Saumon, man. Saumon up to thirty pounds’ wecht.’

‘Oh, of course, salmon. That must be a glorious sport. But a friend of mine, who has seen it done, told me it wasn’t ‘ard. He said that even I could catch a salmon.’

‘Mair like a saumon wad catch you. Now, you haud down the back road, and ye’ll come out aside the lodge gate. And dinna you come here again. The orders is strict, and if auld Angus was to get a grip o’ ye, I wadna say what wad happen. Guid day to ye, and dinna stop till ye’re out o’ the gates.’

Leithen did as he was bid, circumnavigated the house, struck a farm track, and in time reached the high road. It was a very doleful tourist who trod the wayside heather past the Wood of Larrigmore.