CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES

Neither of us spoke. Equally surprised at the unexpected encounter, we

stood facing each other dumbfounded.

Hornby started quickly as soon as his eyes fell upon me, and his face

became blanched to the lips, while Muriel Leithcourt, quick to notice

the sudden change in him, rose and introduced us in as calm a voice as

she could command.

"I don't think you are acquainted," she said to me with a smile. "This

is Mr. Martin Woodroffe--Mr. Gordon Gregg."

I bowed to him in sudden resolve to remain silent in pretense that I

doubted whether the man before me was actually my host of the _Lola_. I

intended to act as though I was not sufficiently convinced to openly

express my doubt. Therefore we bowed, exchanging greetings as strangers,

while, carefully watching, I saw how greatly the minds of both were

relieved. They shot meaning glances at each other, and then, as though

reassured that I was mystified and uncertain, the man who called himself

Woodroffe explained to my companion------

"I've been over to Newton Stewart with Fred all day, and only got back a

quarter of an hour ago. Aren't you playing any more to-day?"

"I think not," was her reply. "We've been out there the whole afternoon,

and I'm rather tired. But they're still on the lawn. You can surely get

a game with someone."

"If you don't play, I shan't. I returned to keep the promise I made

this morning," he laughed, standing before the big open fireplace,

holding his tennis racquet behind his back.

I examined his countenance, and was more than ever convinced that he was

actually the man who gave me the name of Hornby and the false address in

Somerset. The pair seemed to be on familiar terms, and I wondered

whether they were engaged. In any case, the man seemed quite at home

there.

As he chatted with the daughter of the house, he cast a quick, covert

glance at me, and then darted a meaning look at her--a look of renewed

confidence, as though he felt that he had successfully averted any

suspicions I might have held.

We talked of the prospects of the grouse and the salmon, and from his

remarks he seemed to be as keen at sport as he had once made out himself

to be at yachting.

"My friend Leithcourt is awfully fortunate in getting such a splendid

old place as this. On every hand I hear glowing accounts of the number

of birds. The place has been well preserved in the past, and there's

plenty of good cover."

"Yes," I said. "Gilrae, the owner, is a keen sportsman, and before he

became so hard up he spent a lot of money on the estate, which, I

believe, has always been considered one of the very best in the

southwest. There's salmon, they say, down in the Glen yonder--but I've

never tried for any."

"Certainly there is. I've seen several. I hope to try one of these days.

The Glen is deep and shady--an ideal place for fish. The only

disappointment here, as far as I can make out, is the very few head of

black-game."

"Yes, but every year they are getting rarer and rarer in this part of

Scotland. A really fine black-cock is quite an event nowadays," I said.

While we were talking, or rather while I was carefully watching the

rapid working of his mind, Leithcourt himself entered and joined us. He

had been playing tennis, and had come in to rest and cool.

Host and guest were evidently on the most intimate terms. Leithcourt

addressed him as "Martin," and began to relate a quarrel which his

head-gamekeeper had had that day with one of the small farmers on the

estate regarding the killing of some rabbits. And while they were

talking Muriel suggested that we should stroll down to the tennis-courts

again, an invitation which, much as I regretted leaving the two men, I

was bound to accept.

It seemed as though she wished purposely to take me away from that man's

presence, fearing that by remaining there longer my suspicions might

become confirmed. She was acting in conjunction with the man whom I had

known as Hornby.

There were still a good many people watching the game, for it was

pleasant in those old-world gardens in the sunset hour. The dried-up

moat was now transformed into a garden filled with rhododendrons and

bright azaleas, while the high ancient beech-hedges, the quaint old

sundial with its motto: "Each time ye shadowe turneth ys one daye nearer

unto dethe," and the old stone balustrades gray with lichen, all spoke

mutely of those glorious days when the fierce horsemen of the Lairds of

Rannoch were feared across the Border, and when many a prisoner of the

Black Douglas had pined and died in those narrow stone chambers in the

grim north tower that still stood high above.

Among the party strolling and lounging there prior to departure were

quite a number of people I knew, people who had shooting-boxes in the

vicinity and were my uncle's friends. In Scotland there is always a

hearty hospitality among the sporting folk, and the laws of caste are

far less rigorous than they are in England.

I was standing chatting with two ladies who were about to take leave of

their hostess, when Leithcourt returned, but alone. Hornby had not

accompanied him. Was it because he feared to again meet me?

In order to ascertain something regarding the man who had so

mysteriously fled from Leghorn, I managed by the exercise of a little

diplomacy to sit on the lawn with a young married woman named Tennant,

wife of a cavalry captain, who was one of the house-party. After a

little time I succeeded in turning the conversation to her fellow

guests, and more particularly to the man I knew as Hornby.

"Oh! Mr. Woodroffe is most amusing," declared the bright little woman.

"He's always playing some practical joke or other. After dinner he is

usually the life and soul of our party."

"Yes," I said, "I like what little I have seen of him. He's a very good

fellow, I should say. I've heard that he's engaged to Muriel," I

hazarded. "Is that true?"

"Of course. They've been engaged nearly a year, but he's been abroad

until quite lately. He is rather close about his own affairs, and never

talks about his travels and adventures, although one day Mr. Leithcourt

declared that his hairbreadth escapes would make a most exciting book if

ever written."

"Leithcourt and he are evidently most intimate friends."

"Oh, quite inseparable!" she laughed. "And the other man who is always

with them is that short, stout, red-faced old fellow standing over there

with the lady in pale blue, Sir Ughtred Gardner. Mr. Woodroffe has

nicknamed him 'Sir Putrid.'" And we both laughed. "Of course, don't say

I said so," she whispered. "They don't call him that to his face, but

it's so easy to make a mistake in his name when he's not within hearing.

We women don't care for him, so the nickname just fits."

And she gossiped on, telling me much that I desired to know regarding

the new tenant of Rannoch and his friends, and more especially of that

man who had first introduced himself to me in the Consulate at Leghorn.

Half an hour later my uncle's carriage was announced, and I left with

the distinct impression that there was some deep mystery surrounding the

Leithcourts. What it was, however, I could not, for the life of me, make

out. Perhaps it was Philip Leithcourt's intimate relation with the man

who had so cleverly deceived me that incited my curiosity concerning

him; perhaps it was that mysterious intuition, that curious presage of

evil that sometimes comes to a man as warning of impending peril.

Whatever the reason, I had become filled with grave apprehensions. The

mystery grew deeper day by day, and was inexplicable.

During the week that followed I sought to learn all I could regarding

the new people at the castle.

"They are taken up everywhere," declared my aunt when I questioned her.

"Of course, we knew very little of them, except that they had a shoot up

near Fort William two years ago, and that they have a town house in

Green Street. They are evidently rather smart folks. Don't you think

so?"

"Judging from their house-party, yes," I responded. "They are about as

gay a crowd as one could find north of Carlisle just at present."

"Exactly. There are some well-known people among them, too," said my

aunt. "I've asked them over to-morrow afternoon, and they've accepted."

"Excellent!" I exclaimed, for I wanted an opportunity for another chat

with the dark-eyed girl who was engaged to the man whose alias was

Hornby. I particularly desired to ascertain the reason of her fear when

I had mentioned the _Lola_, and whether she possessed any knowledge of

Hylton Chater.

The opportunity came to me in due course, for next afternoon the Rannoch

party drove over in two large brakes, and with other people from the

neighborhood and a band from Dumfries, my aunt's grounds presented a gay

and animated scene. There was the usual tennis and croquet, while some

of the men enjoyed a little putting on the excellent course my uncle, a

golf enthusiast, had recently laid down.

As I expected, Woodroffe did not accompany the party. Mrs. Leithcourt, a

slightly fussy little woman, apologized for his absence, explaining that

he had been recalled to London suddenly a few days before, but was

returning to Rannoch again at the end of the week.

"We couldn't afford to lose him," she declared to my aunt. "He is so

awfully humorous--his droll sayings and antics keep us in a perfect roar

each night at dinner. He's such a perfect mimic."

I turned away and strolled with Muriel, pleading an excuse to show her

my uncle's beautiful grounds, not a whit less picturesque than those of

the castle, and perhaps rather better kept.

"I only heard yesterday of your engagement, Miss Leithcourt," I remarked

presently when we were alone. "Allow me to offer my best

congratulations. When you introduced me to Mr. Woodroffe the other day I

had no idea that he was to be your husband."

She glanced at me quickly, and I saw in her dark eyes a look of

suspicion. Then she flushed slightly, and laughing uneasily said, in a

blank, hard voice--

"It's very good of you, Mr. Gregg, to wish me all sorts of such pleasant

things."

"And when is the happy event to take place?"

"The date is not exactly fixed--early next year, I believe," and I

thought she sighed.

"And you will probably spend a good deal of time yachting?" I suggested,

my eyes fixed upon her in order to watch the result of my pointed

remark. But she controlled herself perfectly.

"I love the sea," she responded briefly, and her eyes were set straight

before her.

"Mr. Woodroffe has gone up to town, your mother says."

"Yes. He received a wire, and had to leave immediately. It was an awful

bore, for we had arranged to go for a picnic to Dundrennan Abbey

yesterday."

"But he'll be back here again, won't he?"

"I really don't know. It seems quite uncertain. I had a letter this

morning which said he might have to go over to Hamburg on business,

instead of coming up to us again."

There was disappointment in her voice, and yet at the same time I could

not fail to recognize how the man to whom she was engaged had fled from

Scotland because of my presence.

How I longed to ask her point-blank what she really knew of the

yachtsman who was shrouded in so much mystery. Yet by betraying any

undue anxiety I should certainly negative all my efforts to solve the

puzzling enigma, therefore I was compelled to remain content with asking

ingeniously disguised questions and drawing my own conclusions from her

answers.

As we passed along those graveled walks it somehow became vividly

impressed upon me that her marriage was being forced upon her by her

parents. Her manner was that of one who was concealing some strange and

terrible secret which she feared might be revealed. There was a distant

look of unutterable terror in those dark eyes as though she existed in

some constant and ever-present dread. Of course she told me nothing of

her own feelings or affections, yet I recognized in both her words and

her bearing a curious apathy--a want of the real enthusiasm of

affection. Woodroffe, much her senior, was her father's friend, and it

therefore seemed to me more than likely that Leithcourt was pressing a

matrimonial alliance upon his daughter for some ulterior motive. In the

mad hurry for place, power, and wealth, men relentlessly sell their

daughters in the matrimonial market, and ambitious mothers scheme and

intrigue for their own aggrandizement at sacrifice of their daughter's

happiness more often than the public ever dream. Tragedy is, alas!

written upon the face of many a bride whose portrait appears in the

fashion-papers and whose toilette is so faithfully chronicled in the

paragraph beneath. Indeed, the girl in Society who is allowed her own

free choice in the matter of a husband is, alas! nowadays the exception,

for parents who want to "get on" up the social scale have found that

pretty daughters are a marketable commodity, and many a man has been

placed "on his legs," both financially and socially, by his son-in-law.

Hence the marriage of convenience is fast becoming common, while in the

same ratio the divorce petitions are unfortunately on the increase.

I read tragedy in the dark luminous eyes of Muriel Leithcourt. I knew

that her young heart was over-burdened by some secret sorrow or guilty

knowledge that she would reveal to me if she dared. Her own words told

me that she was perplexed; that she longed to confide and seek advice

of someone, yet by reason of some hidden and untoward circumstance her

lips were sealed.

I tried to question her further regarding Woodroffe, of what profession

he followed and of his past.

But she evidently suspected me, for I had unfortunately mentioned the

_Lola_.

She wanted to speak to me in confidence, and yet she would reveal to me

nothing--absolutely nothing.

Martin Woodroffe did not rejoin the house-party at Rannoch.

Although I remained the guest of my uncle much longer than I intended,

indeed right through the shooting season, in order to watch the

Leithcourts, yet as far as we could judge they were extremely well-bred

people and very hospitable.

We exchanged a good many visits and dinners, and while my uncle several

times invited Leithcourt and his friends to his shoot with _al fresco_

luncheon, which the ladies joined, the tenant of Rannoch always invited

us back in return.

Thus I gained many opportunities of talking with Muriel, and of watching

her closely. I had the reputation of being a confirmed bachelor, and on

account of that it seemed that she was in no way averse to my

companionship. She could handle a rook-rifle as well as any woman, and

was really a very fair shot. Therefore we often found ourselves alone

tramping across the wide open moorland, or along those delightful glens

of the Nithsdale, glorious in the autumn tints of their luxurious

foliage.

Her father, on the other hand, seemed to view me with considerable

suspicion, and I could easily discern that I was only asked to Rannoch

because it was impossible to invite my uncle without including myself.

Leithcourt, who perhaps thought I was courting his daughter, was ever

endeavoring to avoid me, and would never allow me to walk with him

alone. Why? I wondered. Did he fear me? Had Woodroffe told him of our

strange encounter in Leghorn?

His pronounced antipathy towards me caused me to watch him

surreptitiously, and more closely than perhaps I should otherwise have

done. He was a man of gloomy mood, and often he would leave his guests

and take walks alone, musing and brooding. On several occasions I

followed him in secret, and found to my surprise that although he made

long detours in various directions, yet he always arrived at the same

spot at the same hour--five o'clock.

The place where he halted was on the edge of a dark wood on the brow of

a hill about three miles from Rannoch--a good place to get woodpigeon,

as they came to roost. It was fully two miles across the hills from the

high road to Moniaive, and from the break the gray wall where he was in

the habit of sitting to rest and smoke, there stretched the beautiful

panorama of Loch Urr and the heatherclad hills beyond.

Leithcourt never went direct to the place, but always so timed his walks

that he arrived just at five, and remained there smoking cigarettes

until half-past, as though awaiting the arrival of some person he

expected. Once or twice his guests suggested shooting pigeons at

sundown, but he always had some excuse for opposing the proposal, and

thus the party, unsuspecting the reason, were kept away from that

particular lonely spot.

In my youth I had sat many a quiet hour there in the darkening gloom and

shot many a pigeon, therefore I knew the wood well, and was able to

watch the tenant of Rannoch from points where he least suspected the

presence of another.

Once, when I was alone with Muriel, I mentioned her father's capacity

for walking alone, whereupon she said--

"Oh, yes, he was always fond of walking. He used to take me with him

when we first came here, but he always went so far that I refused to go

any more."

She never once mentioned Woodroffe. I allowed her plenty of opportunity

for doing so, chaffing her about her forthcoming marriage in order that

she might again refer to him. But never did his name pass her lips. I

understood that he had gone abroad--that was all.

Often when alone I reflected upon my curious adventure on that night

when I met Olinto, and of my narrow escape from the hands of my unknown

enemies. I wondered if that ingenious and dastardly attempt upon my life

had really any connection with that strange incident at Leghorn. As day

succeeded day, my mind became filled by increasing suspicion. Mystery

surrounded me on every hand.

Indeed, by one curious fact alone it was increased a hundredfold.

Late one afternoon, when I had been out shooting all day with the

Rannoch party, I drove back to the castle in the Perth-cart with three

other men, and found the ladies assembled in the great hall with tea

ready. A welcome log-fire was blazing in the huge old grate, for in

October it is chilly and damp in Scotland and a fire is pleasant at

evening.

Muriel was seated upon the high padded fender--like those one has at

clubs--which always formed a cosy spot for the ladies, especially after

dinner. When I entered, she rose quickly and handed me my cup,

exclaiming as she looked at me--

"Oh, Mr. Gregg! what a state you are in!"

"Yes, I was after snipe, and slipped into a bog," I laughed. "But it

was early this morning, and the mud has dried."

"Come with me, and I'll get you a brush," she urged. And I followed her

through the long corridors and upstairs to a small sitting-room which

was her own little sanctum, where she worked and read--a cosy little

place with two queer old windows in the colossal wall, and a floor of

polished oak, and great black beams above. When the owner had occupied

the house that room had been disused, but it had, I found, been now

completely transformed, and was a most tasteful little nest of luxury

with its bright chintzes, its Turkey rugs and its cheerful fire on the

old stone hearth.

She laughed when I expressed admiration of her little den, and said--

"I believe it was the armory in the old days. But it makes quite a comfy

little boudoir. I can lock myself in and be quite quiet when the party

are too noisy," she added merrily.

But as my eyes wandered around they suddenly fell upon an object which

caused me to start with profound wonder--a cabinet photograph in a frame

of crimson leather.

The picture was that of a young girl--a duplicate of the portrait I had

found torn across and flung aside on board the _Lola_!

The merry eyes laughed out at me as I stood staring at it in sheer

bewilderment.

"What a pretty girl!" I exclaimed quickly, concealing my surprise. "Who

is she?"

My companion was silent a moment, her dark eyes meeting mine with a

strange look of inquiry.

"Yes," she laughed, "everyone admires her. She was a schoolfellow of

mine--Elma Heath."

"Heath!" I echoed. "Where was she at school with you?"

"At Chichester."

"Long ago?"

"A little over two years."

"She's very beautiful!" I declared, taking up the photograph and

discovering that it bore the name of the same well-known photographer in

New Bond Street as that I had found on the carpet of the _Lola_ in the

Mediterranean.

"Yes. She's really prettier than her photograph. It hardly does her

justice."

"And where is she now?"

"Why are you so very inquisitive, Mr. Gregg?" laughed the handsome girl.

"Have you actually fallen in love with her from her picture?"

"I'm hardly given to that kind of thing, Miss Leithcourt," I answered

with mock severity. "I don't think even my worst enemy could call me a

flirt, could she?"

"No. I will give you your due," she declared. "You never do flirt. That

is why I like you."

"Thanks for your candor, Miss Leithcourt," I said.

"Only," she added, "you seem smitten with Elma's charms."

"I think she's extremely pretty," I remarked, with the photograph still

in my hand. "Do you ever see her now?"

"Never," she replied. "Since the day I left school we have never met.

She was several years younger than myself, and I heard that a week after

I left Chichester her people came and took her away. Where she is now I

have no idea. Her people lived somewhere in Durham. Her father was a

doctor."

Her reply disappointed me. Yet I had, at least, retained knowledge of

the name of the original of the picture, and from the photographer I

might perhaps discover her address, for to me it seemed that she was

somehow intimately connected with those mysterious yachtsmen.

What Muriel told me concerning her, I did not doubt for a single

instant. Yet it was certainly more than a coincidence that a copy of the

picture which had created such a deep impression upon me should be

preserved in her own little boudoir as a souvenir of a devoted

school-friend.

"Then you have heard absolutely nothing as to her present position or

whereabouts--whether she is married, for instance?"

"Ah!" she cried mischievously. "You betray yourself by your own words.

You have fallen in love with her, I really believe, Mr. Gregg. If she

knew, she'd be most gratified--or at least, she ought to be."

At which I smiled, preferring that she should adopt that theory in

preference to any other.

She spoke frankly, as a pure honest girl would speak. She was not

jealous, but she nevertheless resented--as women do resent such

things--that I should fall in love with a friend's photograph.

There was a mystery surrounding that torn picture; of that I was

absolutely certain. The remembrance of that memorable evening when I had

dined on board the _Lola_ arose vividly before me. Why had the girl's

portrait been so ruthlessly destroyed and the frame turned with its face

to the wall? There was some reason--some distinct and serious motive in

it. Had Muriel told me the truth, I wondered, or was she merely seeking

to shield the suspected man who was her lover?

Hour by hour the mystery surrounding the Leithcourts became more

inscrutable, more intensely absorbing. I had searched a copy of the

London Directory at the Station Hotel at Carlisle, and found that no

house in Green Street was registered as occupied by the tenant of

Rannoch; and, further, when I came to examine the list of guests at the

castle, I found that they were really persons unknown in society. They

were merely of that class of witty, well-dressed parasites who always

cling on to the wealthy and make believe that they are smart and of the

_grande monde_. Rannoch was an expensive place to keep up, with all that

big retinue of servants and gamekeepers, and with those nightly dinners

cooked by a French _chef_; yet Leithcourt seemed to possess a long

pocket and smiled upon those parasites, officers of doubtful commission

and younger sprigs of the pseudo-aristocracy who surrounded him, while

his wife, keen-eyed and of superb bearing, was punctilious concerning

all points of etiquette, and at the same time indefatigable that her

mixed set of guests should enjoy a really good time.

But I was not the only person who could not make them out. My uncle was

the first to open my eyes regarding the true character of certain of the

men staying at Rannoch.

"I think, Gordon, that one or two of those fellows with Leithcourt are

rank outsiders," he said confidentially to me one night after we had had

a hard day's shooting, and were playing a hundred up at billiards before

retiring. "One man, who arrived yesterday, I know too well. He was

struck off the list at Boodle's three years ago for card-sharping--that

thin-faced, fair-mustached man named Cadby. I suppose Leithcourt doesn't

know it, or he wouldn't have him up here among respectable folk." And my

uncle, chewing the end of his cigar, sniffed angrily, seeming half

inclined to give his friend a gentle hint that the name Cadby was placed

beyond the pale of good society.

"Better not say anything about it," I urged. "It's Leithcourt's own

affair, uncle--not ours."

"Yes, but if a man sets up a position in the country he mustn't be

allowed to ask us to meet such fellows. It's coming it a little too

thick, Gordon. We men can stand the women of the party, but the

men--well, I tell you candidly, I shan't accept his invites to shoot

again."

"No, no, uncle," I protested. "Probably it's owing to ignorance. You'll

be able, a little later on, to give him valuable tips. He's a good

fellow, and only wants experience in Scotland to get along all right."

"Yes. But I don't like it, my boy, I don't like it! It isn't playing a

fair game," declared the rigid old gentleman, coloring resentfully. "I'm

not going to return the invitation and ask that sharper, Cadby, to my

house--and I tell you that plainly."

Next day I shot with the Carmichaels of Crossburn, and about four

o'clock, after a good day, took leave of the party in the Black Glen,

and started off alone to walk home, a distance of about six miles. It

was already growing dusk, and would be quite dark, I knew, before I

reached my uncle's house. My most direct way was to follow the river for

about two miles and then strike straight across the large dense wood,

and afterwards over a wide moor full of treacherous bogs and pitfalls

for the unwary.

My gun over my shoulder, I had walked on for about three-quarters of an

hour, and had nearly traversed the wood, at that hour so dark that I had

considerable difficulty in finding my way, when--of a sudden--I fancied

I distinguished voices.

I halted. Yes. Men were talking in low tones of confidence, and in that

calm stillness of evening they appeared nearer to me than they actually

were.

I listened, trying to distinguish the words uttered, but could make out

nothing. They were moving slowly together, in close vicinity to myself,

for their feet stirred the dry leaves, and I could hear the boughs

cracking as they forced their way through them.

Of a sudden, while standing there not daring to breathe lest I should

betray my presence, a strange sound fell upon my eager ears.

Next moment I realized that I was at that place where Leithcourt so

persistently kept his disappointed tryst, having approached it from

within the wood.

The sound alarmed me, and yet it was neither an explosion of fire-arms

nor a startling cry for help.

One word reached me in the darkness--one single word of bitter and

withering reproach.

Heedless of the risk I ran and the peril to which I exposed myself, I

dashed forward with a resolve to penetrate the mystery, until I came to

the gap in the rough stone wall where Leithcourt's habit was to halt

each day at sundown.

There, in the falling darkness, the sight that met my eyes at the spot

held me rigid, appalled, stupefied.

In that instant I realized the truth--a truth that was surely the

strangest ever revealed to any man.