“I understood that when we met in Nice.”

“Good!  Now I understand that your mother, Lady Ranscomb, is much against your marriage with Hugh Henfrey.  She has other views.”

“Really!  Who told you that?”

“I have ascertained it in the course of my inquiry.”

Dorise paused, and then looking the man of mystery straight in the face, asked: 

“What do you really know about me?”

“Well,” he laughed lightly.  “A good deal.  Now tell me when could you be free to get away from your mother for a whole day?”

“Why?”

“I want to know.  Just tell me the date.  When are you returning to London?”

“On Saturday week.  I could get away—­say—­on Tuesday week.”

“Very good.  You would have to leave London by an early train in the morning—­if I fail to send a car for you, which I hope to do.  And be back again late at night.”

“Why?”

“Why,” he echoed.  “Because I have a reason.”

“I believe you will take me to meet Hugh—­eh?  Ah!  How good you are!” cried the girl in deep emotion.  “I shall never be able to thank you sufficiently for all you are doing.  I—­I have been longing all these weeks to see him again—­to hear his explanation why he went to the woman’s house at that hour—­why——­”

“He will tell you everything, no doubt,” said her mysterious visitor.  “He will tell you everything except one fact.”

“And what is that?” she asked breathlessly.

“One fact he will not tell you.  But you will know it later.  Hugh Henfrey is a fine manly fellow, Miss Ranscomb.  That is why I have done my level best in his interest.”

“But why should you?” she asked.  “You are, after all, a stranger.”

“True.  But you will know the truth some day.  Meanwhile, leave matters as they are.  Do not prejudge him, even if the police are convinced of his guilt.  Could you be at King’s Cross station at ten o’clock on the morning of Tuesday week?  If so, I will meet you there.”

“Yes,” she replied.  “But where are we going?”

“At present I have no idea.  When one is escaping from the police one’s movements have to be ruled by circumstances from hour to hour.  I will do my best on that day to arrange a meeting between you,” he added.

She thanked him very sincerely.  He was still a mystery, but his face and his whole bearing attracted her.  He was her friend.  She recollected his words amid that gay revelry at Nice—­words of encouragement and sympathy.  And he had travelled there, far north into Perthshire, in order to carry the letter which she had thrust into her pocket, yet still holding it in her clenched hand.

“I do wish you would tell me the motive of your extreme kindness towards us both,” Dorise urged.  “I can’t make it out at all.  I am bewildered.”

“Well—­so am I, Miss Ranscomb,” replied the tall, elegant man who spoke with such refinement, and was so shrewd and alert.  “There are certain facts—­facts of which I have no knowledge.  The affair at the Villa Amette is still, to me, a most profound mystery.”