Whatever his position between the two women might be, his interest in possessing himself of the correspondence was plain beyond all doubt.  It was equally clear that the first thing to be done by Bishopriggs was to find the means of obtaining a personal interview with him.  If the interview led to nothing else, it would decide one important question which still remained to be solved.  The lady whom Bishopriggs had waited on at Craig Fernie might well be “Anne Silvester.”  Was Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn, in that case, the gentleman who had passed as her husband at the inn?

Bishopriggs rose to his gouty feet with all possible alacrity, and hobbled away to make the necessary inquiries, addressing himself, not to the men-servants at the dinner-table, who would be sure to insist on his joining them, but to the women-servants left in charge of the empty house.

He easily obtained the necessary directions for finding the cottage.  But he was warned that Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn’s trainer allowed nobody to see his patron at exercise, and that he would certainly be ordered off again the moment he appeared on the scene.

Bearing this caution in mind, Bishopriggs made a circuit, on reaching the open ground, so as to approach the cottage at the back, under shelter of the trees behind it.  One look at Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn was all that he wanted in the first instance.  They were welcome to order him off again, as long as he obtained that.

He was still hesitating at the outer line of the trees, when he heard a loud, imperative voice, calling from the front of the cottage, “Now, Mr. Geoffrey!  Time’s up!” Another voice answered, “All right!” and, after an interval, Geoffrey Delamayn appeared on the open ground, proceeding to the point from which he was accustomed to walk his measured mile.

Advancing a few steps to look at his man more closely, Bishopriggs was instantly detected by the quick eye of the trainer.  “Hullo!” cried Perry, “what do you want here?” Bishopriggs opened his lips to make an excuse.  “Who the devil are you?” roared Geoffrey.  The trainer answered the question out of the resources of his own experience.  “A spy, Sir—­sent to time you at your work.”  Geoffrey lifted his mighty fist, and sprang forward a step.  Perry held his patron back.  “You can’t do that, Sir,” he said; “the man’s too old.  No fear of his turning up again—­you’ve scared him out of his wits.”  The statement was strictly true.  The terror of Bishopriggs at the sight of Geoffrey’s fist restored to him the activity of his youth.  He ran for the first time for twenty years; and only stopped to remember his infirmities, and to catch his breath, when he was out of sight of the cottage, among the trees.

He sat down to rest and recover himself, with the comforting inner conviction that, in one respect at least, he had gained his point.  The furious savage, with the eyes that darted fire and the fist that threatened destruction, was a total stranger to him.  In other words, not the man who had passed as the lady’s husband at the inn.