CHAPTER VIII.

A DELICATE ERRAND At eight o’clock on a Sunday morning there is hardly a dog astir in Prince’s Street, Edinburgh, that wonderful thoroughfare of splendid shops on the one side and the valley gardens on the other, often declared by travelers to be one of the most picturesque streets in all the world. As Paton and Darville ate their breakfast in the big dining-room of the North British Hotel, above the Waverley Station, they looked out across the valley to the gray old castle, perched on its cliff, to the left, and t…