“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.