Free MacCallister: The Eagles Legacy by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone

understand how one as unworthy as I could have won the love of such a wonderful woman.
    I am now living in New York and have gone to work in the theater, the position secured for me by my cousin Andrew. We are in “pre-production” as they say, for the play “The Highlander.” I am told that it was inspired by the visit of my cousins Andrew and Rosanna to Scotland. Of course, Andrew and Rosanna are the principal players of the production.
    I hold the most gratifying position as stage manager. The play will take place in the Rex, an elegant and ample theater which is on West 48th Street at Broadway. You may find this interesting, Ian. The Rex theatre is lit entirely by electricity, the installation personally supervised by the inventor Thomas Edison.
    Please write to me and tell me how you are doing. With shared sorrow for the loss of our dear Skye, I remain,
    Your friend,
Duff MacCallister
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Scotland—Donuun in Argyllshire
     
    Postmaster Desmond Henry walked into the office of the Lord High Sheriff Angus Somerled, clutching an envelope to his breast. Deputy Rab Malcolm looked up at him.
    “Postmaster Henry, may I help you?”
    “I would like to speak with the sheriff, please.”
    “What do you want to see the sheriff about?”
    “That would be between me and the sheriff,” the postmaster replied.
    Deputy Malcolm made a guttural sound deep in his throat, then stood and walked into the back office. He returned after a moment with the sheriff.
    “What is this about, Henry?” Sheriff Somerled asked.
    “Is there still a reward being offered for anyone who can tell you where to find Duff MacCallister?” Henry asked.
    “A twenty-pound reward, yes. Do you know where he is?”
    “Let me see the twenty pounds,” Henry demanded.
    Sheriff Somerled nodded at Deputy Malcolm, and Malcolm walked over to a file, opened a drawer, and took our four five-pound notes and handed them to the sheriff. Postmaster Henry reached out for them, but the sheriff pulled his hand back.
    “Where is he?”
    “Well, that’s just it, Sheriff. I will tell you where he is, but you will nae be able to do anything about it. ’Tis out of your jurisdiction, he is.”
    “Where is he?” Sheriff Somerled asked again.
    “He is in New York.”
    “New York? You mean he is in America?”
    “Aye.”
    “Then he did get on the ship that night,” Somerled said, hitting his fist into his hand. “I should have gone aboard to look for him. How do you know he is in New York?”
    “He wrote this letter to Ian McGregor,” the postmaster said, showing the envelope to the sheriff. “It has his return address on it. Two hundred West Forty-eighth Street, New York, New York.”
    “How do we know he is still there?” Deputy Malcolm asked.
    “Because he has a job there,” the postmaster said. “It is clear that he plans to stay for a while.”
    “How do you know that?” Sheriff Somerled asked.
    “I steamed open the envelope and read the letter,” Postmaster Henry said. “I made a copy of the letter before I returned it to the envelope.”
    “Let me see your copy.”
    “That will cost you another twenty pounds,” Henry said.
    “I could arrest you for opening someone else’s mail,” Sheriff Somerled warned.
    “You could. But you may not find another postmaster who is as willing to cooperate with you as I have always been.”
    “Yes, for profit,” Somerled said.
    “One has to make a living, Sheriff. The postal service pays so little.”
    Somerled stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded at Malcolm. “Get him another twenty pounds,” he said.
    Deputy Malcolm got another twenty pounds and gave it to the postmaster who, in return, gave the sheriff a folded piece of paper. “I printed it clearly so you should have no trouble reading it,” the postmaster said.
    Somerled took the piece of paper, opened it, and began reading eagerly.
    “If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to,” the postmaster said. “I