“Only that he looked like a foreigner.”

“Then you have seen him?” I exclaimed, much surprised.

My remark caused her to hold her breath for an instant.  Then she answered, rather lamely, it seemed to me: 

“I saw him when the keepers brought the body to the castle.”

Now, according to the account I had heard, the police had conveyed the dead man direct from the wood into Dumfries.  Was it possible, therefore, that she had seen Olinto before he met with his sudden end?

I feared to press her for an explanation at that moment, but, nevertheless, the admission that she had seen him struck me as a very peculiar fact.

“You judge him to be a foreigner?” I remarked as casually as I could.

“From his features and complexion I guessed him to be Italian,” she responded quickly, at which I pretended to express surprise.  “I saw him after the keepers had found him.”

“Besides,” she went on, “the stiletto was evidently an Italian one, which would almost make it appear that a foreigner was the assassin.”

“Is that your own suspicion?”

“No.”

“Why?”

She hesitated a moment, then in a low, eager voice she said: 

“Because I have already seen that three-edged knife in another person’s possession.”

“That’s pretty strong evidence,” I declared.  “The person in question will have to prove that he was not in Rannoch Wood last evening at nightfall.”

“How do you know it was done at nightfall?” she asked quickly with some surprise, half-rising from her chair.

“I merely surmised that it was,” I responded, inwardly blaming myself for my ill-timed admission.

“Ah!” she said with a slight sigh, “there is more mystery in this affair than we have yet discovered, Mr. Gregg.  What, I wonder, brought the unfortunate young man up into our wood?”

“An appointment, without a doubt.  But with whom?”

She shook her head, saying: 

“My father often goes to that spot to shoot pigeon in the evening.  He told us so at luncheon to-day.  How fortunate he was not there last night, or he might be suspected.”

“Yes,” I said.  “It is a very fortunate circumstance, for it cannot be a pleasant experience to be under suspicion of being an assassin.  He was at home last night, was he?” I added casually.

“Of course.  Don’t you recollect that when you called he chatted with you?  I did some typewriting for him in the study, and we were together all the afternoon—­or at least till nearly five o’clock, when we went out into the hall to tea.”

“Then what is your theory regarding the affair?” I inquired, rather puzzled why she should so decisively prove an alibi for her father.

“It seems certain that the poor fellow went to the wood by appointment, and was killed.  But have you been up to the spot since the finding of the body?”