Indeed, within her blouse she carried his last letter which she had received three weeks before when in London—­a letter in which he implored her not to misjudge him, and in which he promised that, as soon as he dared to leave his hiding-place and meet her, he would explain everything.  In return, she had again written to him, but though three weary weeks had passed, she had received no word in reply.  She could neither write by post, nor could she telegraph.  It was far too dangerous.  In addition, his address had been purposely withheld from her.

Walter Brock had tried to ascertain it.  He had even seen the mysterious messenger on her last visit to England, but she had refused point-blank, declaring that she had been ordered to disclose nothing.  She was merely a messenger.

That her correspondence was still being watched by the police, Dorise was quite well aware.  Her maid, Duncan, had told her in confidence quite recently that while crossing Berkeley Square one evening she had been accosted by a good-looking young man who, having pressed his attentions upon her, had prevailed upon her to meet him on the following evening.

He then took her to dinner to a restaurant in Soho, and to the pictures afterwards.  They had met half a dozen times, when he began to cleverly question her concerning her mistress, asking whether she had letters from her gentleman friends.  At this Duncan had grown suspicious, and she had not met the young fellow since.

That, in itself, showed her that the police were bent on discovering and arresting Hugh.

The great mystery of it all was why Hugh should have gone deliberately and clandestinely to the Villa Amette on the night of the tragic affair.

Dorise was really an expert in casting a fly; also she excelled in several branches of sport.  She was a splendid tennis-player, she rode well to hounds, and was very fair at golf.  But that morning she had no heart for fishing, and especially in such company.  She despised George Sherrard as a prig, fond of boasting of his means, and, indeed, so terribly self-conscious was he that in many circles he was declared impossible.  Men disliked him for his swagger and conceit, and women despised him for his superior attitude towards them.

For a full hour Dorise continued making casts, but in vain.  She changed her flies once or twice, until at last, by a careless throw, she got her tackle hooked high in a willow, with the result that, in endeavouring to extricate it, she broke off the hook.  Then with an exclamation of impatience, she wound up her line and threw her rod upon the grass.

“Hallo, Dorise!” cried a voice.  “No luck, eh?”

Sherrard had returned and had witnessed her outbreak of impatience.

“None!” she snapped, for the loss of her fly annoyed her.  She knew that she had been careless, because under old Murray’s careful tuition she had become quite expert with the rod, both with trout and salmon.