The fire in the study grate fought a losing battle against the damp Glasgow chill. Robert Baillie, his face etched with the day's burdens, looked up from his correspondence as a knock sounded on the heavy oak door. His servant ushered in a you whose travel-stained cloak and weary stance spoke of a long journey from the south.

"I am Principal Baillie," the minister tells to you. "To what end I own this visit."