Depositing her box at the Glasgow station left-luggage office, she set out to discover Sauchiehall Street. In this, of course, no difficulty arose, but when it came to finding the actual house—well, that appeared a total impossibility. Evarne was almost inclined to believe that she had come to Scotland on a wild-goose chase, for there seemed to exist no such address as that with which Mr. Punter had headed his letters. There was the number above and the number below the very one she required, but between them—where the house she sought would naturally have been expected to stand—was merely a piece of unused building ground.

It was a forlorn, unkempt spot, with straggling grasses and weeds, amid which were piles of bricks and stone, fragments of torn paper, an old boot, and other such dÉbris as will accumulate on waste ground, even though it be in the very centre of the principal street of a big city. As if to make it serve at least one useful purpose, there had been erected on it an enormous hoarding, covered with advertisements.

Here was a regular mystery! Inquiries respecting the address she was seeking were vain. She walked anxiously up and down Sauchiehall Street, half hoping to find the missing number somehow transported from its legitimate numerical position, but all to no avail. Again and again she returned to survey the deserted site where Mr. Punter's residence ought to be. Unless he camped in the shadow of the hoarding, as did one or two stray cats—a sudden thought flashed across her! Pushing past the small gate that hung partly open on its hinges, and ploughing her way through the long grass, she penetrated round to the back of the hoarding. There it was, after all—a house sure enough—partly tumbled down, it is true, with broken windows, fallen chimneys, and a general air of having been long abandoned by mankind; still, a house, even though half the roof had collapsed. More than that; close by, on a large wooden frame, hung a roughly painted theatrical drop-scene. The place was found!

But what a habitation for a civilised human being! What sort of a person was Mr. Punter? Was he a gipsy—a tramp? Was he in the last stages of poverty, or merely eccentric? The girl approached the front door. Its upper half was formed of thick panels of stained glass, now cracked and broken in a dozen places, but with brown paper carefully pasted on the inner side to cover the actual holes. Knocking boldly with the end of her umbrella, Evarne waited, though half prepared to receive no answer.

But after a moment's silence there came a sound of a window being thrown open, and a voice called out from somewhere aloft, "Hullo!"

She stepped back and looked upwards. A youth, wrapped in a blanket, was gazing down upon her.

"Oh, I suppose you are Madame Sheep, or Miss Stornway?" he exclaimed. "Stop a minute, and I'll be down."

With these words he vanished.

Decidedly "intrigued," the girl waited patiently. How very unlike was this reception to anything her wildest imagination had anticipated. An inhabited ruin, the occupant thereof clad in the bedclothes, peering down from an upper window to inquire if she was herself or some person who possessed the weird name of "Madame Sheep!" She felt as if it were part of a ridiculous dream.

Finally, the door was opened, not by the blanketed youth, but by a middle-aged man, small and short, with a head beginning to grow bald and a face clean-shaven, save for curious old-fashioned side-whiskers.

Hailing the girl by name with the heartiness of an old friend, he led the way across the hall and into a large room on the ground floor. It was totally unfurnished, save for a rough wooden table, a bench and a couple of chairs. On one of these Evarne was invited to take a seat.

Yes, this little individual was "the" Mr. Punter in person. He proceeded to hold forth in enthusiastic terms concerning the future prospects of "Caledonia's Bard." The play had never been produced yet, that was why he had advertised for a full company. He anticipated that it would run for years. Not that he expected to be able to retain the original company all that time. Every part was so splendid—practically all were star-parts—that the artistes who had the good fortune to appear in them would soon be tempted away from him by London managers. Oh no, he hadn't written the drama himself. He only wished he was sufficiently gifted. But he was very proud to be able to acknowledge that it was, indeed, the fruit of the genius of one of his family. Such an inspiring subject. He had an intense admiration for Robert Burns. Was Miss Stornway, indeed, not intimately acquainted with the whole of that wonderful poet's works? Oh dear! dear! That was distressing, and must be remedied. She should be lent a book—several books. Mr. Sandy, the great actor who was to play the title rÔle, knew nearly all Burns's poems by heart, and it was chiefly owing to his appreciation of the acute study of the poet's character, in "Caledonia's Bard," that he had resolved to disappoint several other managers in order to join this company. The young lady who played "Highland Mary," the heroine, had not arrived yet. She lived in Northumberland. A really excellent actress, only second to Ellen Terry. Mr. Punter had gone to great expense to procure her services. Madame Cheape—not Sheep, my dear—was the "Clarinda." This spacious apartment had been retained especially for rehearsals.

Thus he ran on, apparently in emulation of Tennyson's brook, and Evarne had nothing to do but look intelligent, and interpose a brief question occasionally to show that she was attending.

He only ceased when the door opened to admit a little woman who had approached unheard. The newcomer was very pale, and looked fragile and subdued. Her thin hair was drawn neatly behind her ears, her shabby black gown hung in folds over her flat chest, and she slouched in list slippers so many sizes too large that had she ventured to lift her feet in walking, she would inevitably have stepped out of her footgear, and left it behind her on the floor.

"Ah ha! Allow me to introduce my wife," said Mr. Punter.

Evarne rose and shook hands.

"How do you like your part?" was the salutation of the lady of the house.

The girl discreetly avoided a direct answer.

"It has made me very anxious to hear the whole play."

Fortunately the little woman considered this response as entirely satisfactory. She smiled complacently, and commenced to nod her head so steadily, it appeared in danger of becoming loosened.

Mr. Punter likewise seemed to swell with pride. At length he could keep the great secret no longer.

"I may as well tell you first as last, Miss Stornway. You are now addressing the authoress of 'Caledonia's Bard.'"

Evarne was indeed taken aback at this piece of information. Barely succeeding in suppressing a start, she murmured something she fondly hoped was duly appropriate to the occasion. Evidently she was successful, for Mrs. Punter ceased nodding, and thanked her heartily.

"And now, where are you going to put up, my dear?" she inquired. "Do you know Glasgow at all?"

"I've never been here before, but I expect I can find diggings easily enough. Rehearsals begin to-morrow, don't they?"

"Well, that was what we expected," responded Mr. Punter. "But a few of the principals have not arrived yet. Still, a short delay will enable you to become word-perfect in your part, won't it? And that is so important."

"Yes-s. But when does the tour open, then?"

"Of course that depends entirely on how the rehearsals progress. Now, you must have something to eat before you start house-hunting. You won't mind going into the kitchen?"

Mrs. Punter slouched on ahead, and Evarne followed to another room at the rear of the house. This also was practically devoid of furniture, but doubtless derived its name from the small oil-stove that stood on the table.

The window looked out on to what had formerly been a garden, but which now wore that melancholy and desolate aspect that characterises a once well-tended spot that has long been utterly neglected. The lawn was a field; the flower-beds lost in weeds; the gravel walks overgrown; boisterous winds had snapped the slender stem of a young tree, which now lay wilted upon the ground. Altogether, it was a scene in no way conducive to high spirits.

The authoress set about performing culinary operations with a frying-pan and the oil-stove, and in due course a repast was evolved of fried ham and stale bread. Evarne found Mrs. Punter's skill at cookery on a par with the estimate she had already formed of her literary gifts. Eating heroically what she could, she rose to leave.

"But first I must introduce you to Charles Stuart," declared Mr. Punter, who had joined them.

"Yes. Who is he?"

"He does a little carpentering, and is to appear in the drama. He is now painting the scenery."

"Useful man," thought the girl, and almost forgave him for adopting such a nom-de-thÉatre.

Wending their way to a tiny outhouse, they there found this valuable personage busily occupied in mixing paint. He turned round at their entry, and for the second time that hour Evarne with difficulty suppressed a gasp. The entire person of Charles Stuart, as far as could be seen, was so covered with black hair that at first glance he resembled a monkey. Quantities of fringe concealed his forehead, falling even over his massive eyebrows. Although quite young still, he not only had a heavy moustache, but a beard and whiskers that lost themselves in the thick mop covering his cranium, while his open shirt displayed a chest like unto a doormat. As he transferred the dripping paint-brush to his left hand and advanced towards Evarne with his hairy right arm outstretched, the girl felt rather like ignobly bolting away. What very extraordinary people she had fallen amidst, to be sure!

But she stood her ground, and spoke to the man as if he had been a natural-looking human being.

"What are you painting now, Mr. Stuart? I should like to see what you have done, if I may."

"Show Miss Stornway what you are working at, Charlie," suggested Mr. Punter, and as they all went out into the garden he explained—

"Stuart was for years the head scene-painter at one of the leading London theatres. You see, we mean to spare no expense."

Evarne found herself wishing that she had not been apparently the one exception in this determination concerning lavish expenditure.

Hanging against the wall of the house were three scenes—one a cottage interior, another a wild glen, and the third, a rustic landscape, scarcely commenced.

"I should like to watch you work," she said. "I paint a little myself."

"Perhaps you would like to help, then?" Mr. Punter promptly suggested. "All my sons work under Charlie. Come to-morrow, and we will find you an apron and brushes and see what you can manage to produce, eh?"

Laughingly, Evarne promised, and at length was allowed to depart.