These were in the Saltmarket, close on the river front, and to reach them I went by the short road through the Friar's Vennel.

It was an ill-reputed quarter of the town, and not long before had been noted as a haunt of coiners; but I had gone through it often, and met with no hindrance.
In the vennel stood a tall dark bit of masonry called Gilmour's Lordship, which was pierced by long closes from which twisting stairways led to the upper landings.

I was noting its gloomy aspect under the dim February moon, when a man came towards me and turned into one of the closes.

He swung along with a free, careless gait that marked him as no townsman, and ere he plunged into the darkness I had a glimpse of fiery hair.

It was the stranger who had accosted me in Parlane's alley, and he was either drunk or in wild spirits, for he was singing:-- "We're a' dry wi' the drinkin' o't, We're a' dry wi' the drinkin' o't.
The minister kissed the fiddler's wife, And he couldna preach for thinkin' o't." The ribald chorus echoed from the close mouth.
Then I saw that he was followed by three others, bent, slinking fellows, who slipped across the patches of moonlight, and eagerly scanned the empty vennel.