She rushed out, the pipes dangling from her hand, so that the drone trailed on the ground behind her.
“Malcolm! Malcolm!” she cried; and he was by her side in scarcely more time than Demon would have taken.
Hurriedly and rather incoherently, she told him what had taken place. He sprang up the stair, and she followed.
In the front garret—with a dormer-window looking down into the street—stood Mrs Catanach facing the door, with such a malignant rage in her countenance that it looked demoniacal. Her dog lay at her feet with his throat torn out.
As soon as she saw Malcolm, she broke into a fury of vulgar imprecation—most of it quite outside the pale of artistic record.
“Hoots! for shame, Mistress Catanach!” he cried, “Here’s my leddy ahin’ me, hearin’ ilka word!”
“Deil stap her lugs wi’ brunstane! What but a curse wad she hae frae me? I sweir by God I s’ gar her pey for this, or my name’s no ——”
She stopped suddenly.
“I thocht as muckle,” said Malcolm with a keen look.
“Ye’ll think twise, ye deil’s buckie, or ye think richt! Wha are ye to think? What sud my name be but Bawby Catanach? Ye’re unco upsettin’ sin’ ye turned my leddy’s flunky! Sorrow taik ye baith! My dawtit Beauty!—worriet by that hell-tyke o’ hers!”