For my own part, however, I was not too sanguine of success.  The portion of the wood which we had already exhausted seemed to be the most likely point.  To carry the body far would require assistance, and in my own mind I believed the crime to have been the work of one person.  There was no path in the wood in that direction, but soon we came to a deep wooded ravine of the existence of which I was in ignorance.  It was a kind of small glen through which a rivulet flowed, but the banks were covered with a thick impenetrable undergrowth out of which sprang many fine old trees, a place that had apparently existed for centuries undisturbed, for here and there a giant trunk that had decayed and fallen lay across the bank, or had rolled into the rocky bed far below.

“This is a most likely place,” declared my dainty little companion as we approached it.  “Anything could easily be concealed in that high bracken down there.  Let us search the whole glen from end to end,” she cried with enthusiasm.

Acting upon her suggestion and without thought of luncheon, we made a descent of the steep bank until we reached the rocky bed of the stream, and then by springing from stone to stone—­sometimes slipping into the water, be it said—­we commenced to beat the bracken and carefully examine every bush.  Progress was not swift.  Once the girl, lithe and athletic as she was, slipped off a mossy stone into a hole where the water was up to her knees.  But she only laughed gayly at the accident, and wringing out her wet skirt, said: 

“It doesn’t matter in the least, if we only find what we’re in search of.”

And then, undaunted, she went on, springing from stone to stone and steadying herself with her stick.  If we could only discover the body of the dead woman, then the rest would be clear, she declared.  She would openly denounce the assassin.

As we went on I revolved within my mind all the curious circumstances in connection with the amazing affair, and recollected my old friend Jack Durnford’s words when we stood upon the quarter-deck of the Bulwark and I had related to him the visit of the mysterious yacht.  I too had left one effort untried, and I blamed myself for overlooking it.  I had not sought of that Bond Street photographer the name and address of the original of the photograph that had been mutilated and destroyed—­that girl with the magnificent eyes that had so attracted me.

The afternoon passed, and yet we were not successful.  I was faint with hunger and thirst, yet my companion did not once complain.  Her energy was marvelous—­and yet was she not hunting down a criminal? was she not determined to obtain such evidence as would enable her to speak the truth fearlessly, and with confidence that it would have the effect of convicting the guilty one?