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.