Still, I was young, unattached, and reckless. My needs were simple, and easily met. One of my fellow scribes and imbibers, it soon transpired, was an inveterate walker who thought nothing of sailing off down the road to one distant destination or another with nothing more than a stout stick and half-a-sixpence. He was a true Son o' the Heather through and through, and gloried in the name Alisdair Angus McTavot. A splendid fellow, Angus-he detested the name Alisdair and would allow no one to use it in his presence-possessed an absolutely infectious enthusiasm, and I soon found myself tramping around the damp countryside with him at week's end and holidays.

We spent many a squall huddled in the doorway of a cow byre waiting for the rain to move off, and as happens on such occasions, we began to speak of our families. It turned out that the McTavot clan enjoyed some tenuous connections with the lapsed Scottish aristocracy. His father was a baronet, whatever that is, and though the title was no longer a sinecure for great wealth, there was yet a modicum of prestige to be wrung from it. If nothing else, his uppercrusty heritage had given Angus a taste for pomp and tradition of an obscure kind. He revelled in all manner of old fashioned notions, and indulged a penchant for the arcana of Celtic history, especially as it touched primitive royalty.

It was through Angus that I was introduced to the Ancient and Honourable Order of the Highland Stag-otherwise known as a gentleman's club. In its prime, the Old Stag as it was affectionately known to its intimates, boasted such illustrious members as Cameron Brodie and Arthur Pitcairn Grant, and such notorious brigands as Drummond 'Black' Douglas, and Judge Buchanan. Sir Walter Scott was an honorary member, as was Robert Louis Stephenson, and Captain Lawrie of Krakatoa fame. Although still eminently respectable, the club had come down somewhat in latter years and no longer attracted the blue-bloods and patricians in the numbers it once boasted-which, I suppose, is how Angus and I were able to gain entrance. Some few of our legal brethren were also members as it was considered a good way for a young man of discreet ambition to advance himself.

I found in the Old Stag a refuge from the increasingly dissipate life of the smoking and drinking set. It was easier in many ways to beg off an invitation to a Friday night's binge with a smile and a 'Love to, chaps, but I've a do at the club. Sorry.'

So it was that I found myself sitting alone in the smoking room one rainy Friday night. It had just passed eight, and most of the other members had gone through to dinner by the time I arrived, so I had the place to myself. I was nursing a pre-prandial single malt, while waiting for a very late Angus, when a tall, distinguished -looking fellow in a quietly expensive suit sat down in the leather armchair directly opposite me. He had a newspaper with him, but it remained folded on his lap while he passed a perfunctory eye over my rather ordinary person.

I assumed he was waiting for me to offer my name-a thing routinely expected of younger members as it allows the elder a chance to vet the newcomers without waiting for a proper introduction. No offence is taken; we are all members, after all. Before I could present myself, however, he said, 'Excuse me, I have no wish to intrude, but you are a friend of young McTavot, I believe.'

'Precisely,' I replied. 'Indeed, the very fellow I am waiting for now.'

'Yes,' said the stranger, 'he will be detained a few minutes. I thought we might take the opportunity to talk.'

This aroused my curiosity, I confess.

'Allow me,' said the man, extending a gold cigar case towards me.

I selected one of the fellow's panatellas, thanked him, and sat back. 'You know Angus, I take it?' I inquired, trying to sound nonchalant.

'Know his father,' answered the man. 'I knew your father, as well. A fine, upstanding man he was, too. Admired him tremendously.' He struck a match to light his cigar. 'I don't mind telling you that I miss him very much.'

'I beg your pardon, sir,' I said, 'but I think you might have me mistaken for someone else. You see, my father is still very much alive-at least, he was last time I checked.'

The man froze, the match hovering in the air. His eyes grew keen as he looked me up and down. 'Good Lord! William Murray still alive? I attended his funeral… or thought I did.'

The mistake came clear. 'William was my grandfather? I explained. 'Thomas is my father.'

The man slumped back in the chair as if he had been walloped on the jaw. He waved out the match, and stared at me, lost, his eyes searching.

'Oh, I am sorry,' he said, coming to himself once more. 'I seem to have got myself into something of a muddle. You are his grandson… Of course! Of course you are. Do forgive me. It is, I fear, one of the burdens of old age. Truly, it is all I can do to remember which century I am in, let alone which year.'

'Think nothing of it,' I offered. 'Happens to me all the time.'

He lit another match, touched the tip of his cigar, and puffed thoughtfully. 'Thomas… yes, of course,' he murmured to himself. 'How silly.' He extended the box of matches to me.

'You knew my grandfather, then.' I selected a match, struck it, and occupied myself with my smoke, giving him time to reply as he would.

'Not half as well as I should have liked,' he answered. 'Met him once or twice at business functions, social wrangles, and the like. William was the friend of a friend, you see.' He paused, puffed, and added, 'McTavot was more in my circle of influence.'

'I see.' We talked of the McTavots and he asked me how Alisdair and I had come to be acquainted. I explained that we laboured in the same law firm, and how Angus had taken me under his wing and introduced me to some of Edinburgh's finer points. 'I'd never have known about the Old Stag, if not for him,' I concluded.

'That's much the best way,' the gent replied amiably. 'Friends of friends.'

Angus arrived in a lather just then, bursting into the room, shaking rainwater all over the expensive leather upholstery. 'Dreadfully sorry,' he apologized. 'I've been trying to get a cab for a half hour. The least little whiff of rain and they all run for cover. I'm soaking. What's this?' He picked up my glass, sniffed, and bolted down the contents. 'Whew!' he puffed out his cheeks. 'That's better.'

'Sit down,' invited the old gent. 'Care for a smoke?'

'Thanks.' He took one of the slim cigars, lit it, and said, 'I see you two have met. Good.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m starved.' To the older gent, he said, 'We were about to go in to dinner. Would you care to join us? There's haggis stalking the moors tonight, I'm told.'

The tall gentleman stood. 'Very kind of you, but I'm afraid I've made other arrangements this evening. Some other time, perhaps.' He bade us both good evening and walked away, quiet and confident, like a cat having got the cream.

'What a strange man,' I remarked, when he had gone.

'Pembers?' wondered Angus. 'Why do you say that?'

I told him about the misunderstanding over my father, and how he had made light of it. 'The strange thing is, I had the distinct impression he really didn't know which century he was in, if you can believe it. He seemed completely lost for a moment. And another thing: I did not give him my name-he already knew it.'

'So? It's not exactly a secret is it?' Angus countered, pulling his watch out of his pocket for a quick glance. 'Someone in the club must have mentioned it to him. Relax, Pembers is all right.'

'Pembers? Is that his name? He never said.'

'Pemberton,' McTavot informed me. 'He has been a friend of the family for I don't know how long. Known him all my life, I suppose.' We started towards the door to the dining room.

'What does Pemberton do?'