“Awa’ east and west wi’ ye!” said I, took the money bag out of his hands, and followed the clerk in.

 

The outer room was an office with the clerk’s chair at a table spread with law papers. In the inner chamber¹, which opened from it, a little brisk man sat poring on a deed, from which he scarce raised his eyes on my entrance; indeed, he still kept his finger in the place, as though prepared to show me out and fall again to his studies. This pleased me little enough; and what pleased me less, I thought the clerk was in a good posture² to overhear what should pass between us.

 

I asked if he was Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer.

 

“The same,” says he; “and, if the question is equally fair, who may you be yourself?”

 

“You never heard tell of my name nor of me either,” said I, “but I bring you a token from a friend that you know well. That you know well,” I repeated, lowering my voice, “but maybe are not just so keen to hear from at this present being. And the bits of business that I have to propone to you are rather in the nature of being confidential⁵. In short, I would like to think we were quite private.”

 

He rose without more words, casting down his paper like a man ill-pleased, sent forth⁶ his clerk of an errand, and shut to the house-door behind him.

 

“Now, sir,” said he, returning, “speak out your mind and fear nothing; though before you begin,” he cries out, “I tell you mine misgives⁷ me! I tell you beforehand, ye’re either a Stewart or a Stewart sent ye. A good name it is, and one it would ill-become my father’s son to lightly. But I begin to grue at the sound of it.”

 

“My name is called Balfour,” said I, “David Balfour of Shaws. As for him that sent me, I will let his token speak.” And I showed the silver button.

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