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.”