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.”