As Carthew, at the brink of the smooth plateau before the hut on the cliffs looked round instinctively, he caught sight of a tall white shadow that seemed to be moving toward him through the gloom among the tree-trunks. The evening was drawing in. He had thought he was quite alone there. He went round outside the hut to see what that stealthy shape might be.

He heard a sudden rustling not far away, and saw Captain Dove spring up from behind a bush to gaze about apprehensively. It flashed across his mind that Captain Dove must have been dogging him. He stayed where he was, watching the old man's precipitate flight followed by the figure in cloak and hood, which had darted a horrified, disbelieving glance of recognition at himself as it passed but was evidently too intent on its pursuit to pause.

Carthew had recognised it too, although it passed his understanding altogether to conceive how his own old enemy could have come to Loquhariot. He was, indeed, so taken aback at sight of the Emir El Farish there, and in such a state, that it was some minutes later before he had recovered his wits sufficiently to follow the trail of the strange chase he had witnessed.

He was too late then, and it was already dark. But he ranged the woods for some time before he would give up his anxious quest. He felt very much inclined to call at the castle and come to some understanding with Captain Dove. But—his promise to Sallie prevented him. He must keep that at all costs. Until the three months' grace she had begged should be up, he must continue to possess his soul in patience—or otherwise.

But now—that would be even more difficult than it had lately become. For, until now, he had quietly acquiesced in all that had happened because he could not help either her or himself. But now—the proof he had lacked could be obtained—from El Farish; proof that Sallie was usurping a dead woman's name and place.

He walked down the hill to the inn with his chin on his chest, wondering what the upshot would be if he should take Sallie herself into his confidence. But he was afraid to do that. He felt almost sure that, if she found out from him how she herself had been imposed upon, he might forthwith give up his dearest hope.

On the little green board in the hallway of the Jura Arms, he found two letters awaiting him. The steamer which had arrived that afternoon had evidently brought a belated mail. He noticed incuriously that his two correspondents were Messrs. Bolder & Bolder, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, London, W.C., and the Western lawyer who had arranged the mortgage of his ranch. Then he laid the letters aside and sat down on the edge of his truckle-bed with a pipe.

A little later the maid-of-all-work knocked at his door with a note from the castle. He opened it and read it at once. Then he called after her to order a conveyance for him, and began to hunt out his evening clothes in a hurry. He had only half an hour in which to change and get to the castle again. He was going to dine there, with Sallie—who signed her name as Josceline Justice.

All the previous timid invitations which she had extended to him when he had chanced to meet her out of doors he had refused. But to-night he felt that it might be unwise to absent himself—some premonition of trouble impending caused him to frown at himself in his glass as he hastily patted a white tie into its place.

He paused to open his mail before leaving his room. The first letter briefly begged to inform him that the mortgage on his ranch had not been met on the due date and, failing an immediate remittance, must be called in with all costs. The second told him no less concisely that Sallie's claim to his title and inheritance had, to all intents and purposes, been recognised and admitted as valid by the Court of Chancery, expressed Messrs. Bolder & Bolder's polite regrets over the disappointment which that could not but occasion him, and served to enclose a small account of theirs against him, still outstanding. He put them both in the fire and hurried downstairs.

He was a little late in reaching the castle, but found the company still in the drawing-room; and, as Sallie came forward to greet him, a little look of belated contentment crept into her tired eyes.

"I'm glad you were able to come," was all she said in answer to his apologies, and turned to present him to the Duchess of Dawn, with whom Slyne was chatting, two very aristocratic figures, the young duchess a ravishing picture in one of Sallie's Parisian gowns, Slyne elegant as always in evening clothes.

Lord Ingoldsby, less perfectly fitted and with more than one crease in his white waistcoat, nodded indifferently to Carthew and intercepted Sallie as she introduced the young American to him. So Carthew turned to congratulate Mr. Herries on his recovery. Captain Dove and Mr. Jobling had carefully avoided his eyes. That had been a somewhat awkward moment for all of them, and Carthew, although his own conscience was clear as regarded the other men, was glad that dinner was promptly announced.

That was the first time he had seen the banquet-hall under such conditions, and he blinked at the vista displayed as the big double doors were drawn apart.

The dinner-table in the distance was ablaze under its branching candelabra, in each of which were burning numberless wicks under silken shades. The silver girandoles above the butler's buffet beyond it were no less dazzling, while everywhere else a warm dusk deepened into almost absolute darkness wherever the glow from the still log-fires could not penetrate.

The table appointments seemed to be the most splendid the castle could boast. Carthew could catch the dull glint of gold plate on the buffet. Eight heavy, high-backed chairs of black carved oak were set about the white oasis that the table made on the dark floor. Behind each stood a silent footman, tartan-kilted, tanned of face above a spacious white shirt-front which showed off an old-fashioned doublet handsomely.

Slyne was leading the Duchess of Dawn to her seat. Lord Ingoldsby had Sallie upon his arm: and Mr. Jobling hovered close at her other shoulder. She sat down between them, with his sullen lordship on her right facing the effusive lawyer. And Carthew, following, noticed that she looked round once or twice in his own direction. Captain Dove, a queer-looking figure, had seated himself at Slyne's side, opposite the duchess, and Herries took the chair between him and Lord Ingoldsby, leaving Carthew next the duchess.

The piper made his appearance according to the time-honoured tradition, and marched twice round the table while the oaken rafters overhead rang to the dirl of the dance he drew from his chanter. It was undoubtedly a picturesque if somewhat deafening preliminary to dinner, thought Carthew, looking on much interested at the ceremonial which should have been his prerogative instead of Sallie's. And, as the man withdrew to the inner corridor, Carthew encountered Captain Dove's furtive glance.

But it fell instantly, and the old man went on contemplatively crumbling the roll before him. He seemed to be in a somewhat somnolent mood. It occurred to Carthew that he must have been drinking a good deal before dinner.

A brisk conversation had been begun at Sallie's end of the table, where Mr. Jobling and Lord Ingoldsby were both talking to her at once. Slyne was entertaining the duchess. Carthew exchanged a casual remark or two across the table with Herries and then was drawn into a laughing discussion with the duchess, in which Slyne also took part, suave but by no means friendly toward Carthew. And so course of the stately dinner succeeded course.

More than once, Carthew wished that it were well over. There seemed to be something in the air that affected his nerves unpleasantly. His eyes were always meeting Sallie's—and it seemed to him that it was costing her also no little effort to maintain any interest in the trivialities of the table.

He felt sure that both Captain Dove and Slyne had some secret on their minds. But whether that affected her and him he had no means of finding out. The coming of El Farish had further complicated a situation already complicated almost beyond his mental powers. He felt quite impotent to cope with it, under the added handicap of his promise to Sallie. He felt as though his promise in some sense made him a party to the unspeakably cruel deception which must have been practised on her, and that she might perhaps be justified in blaming him when she should find out—as she surely must—that her presence there was no more than part of a fraudulent masquerade. He was afraid to think how she might deal with him on that score when he should offer her, as he intended to do whenever he should find himself free to speak, himself—and his earldom, for what that was worth.

It suddenly occurred to him that he might find out something concerning El Farish from Captain Dove. All the others but Herries and he were busy. Carthew spoke to Herries across the table.

"I had a queer adventure this afternoon," he said, "at the hut on the cliffs near the head of the loch."

The old factor nodded. "That was Lord St. Just's workshop, Mr. Carthew," he mentioned.

"Well, I went up there to see how the timber had stood the storm, as you told me. And, just before turning into the woods, I took a notion to see what was over the edge—it seemed to me that a good stout railing was badly wanted there."

Herries nodded again. "That's so," he assented, lowering his voice. "It's a very dangerous spot. That was where Lord St. Just lost his life. But now—no one ever goes near the hut."

Carthew glanced at Captain Dove. But the old man's eyes were quite unreadable behind his smoked glasses. He was listening indifferently.

"I can't imagine," Carthew went on, "what it was that suddenly made me look round, but I did. And I caught a glimpse of a most uncanny figure watching me from among the undergrowth about the trees behind. It was all in white, with a hood pulled over its head."

A lull in the conversation elsewhere left only his voice audible. The attention of the others had been attracted, and even the soft-footed servants seemed to be hanging upon his words. Sallie looked surprised, puzzled, even a little afraid. Captain Dove's features spoke a gnawing anxiety now. Slyne's close-set, unfriendly eyes were fixed intently upon him.

"That gave me a cold scare," Carthew continued, almost inclined to wish that he had not mentioned the matter at all. "I'm not quite acclimatised yet to such apparitions. So I dodged behind the hut for shelter and to get a better look at it. But it made off again, almost immediately, in the direction of the castle.

"I chased after it in a minute or two—but I was too late. It had disappeared. And I've been wondering ever since, who and what it could have been," he finished, his eyes, meeting Captain Dove's, expressing only innocent inquiry.

The footman behind him dropped a plate, and the crash that produced startled every one more than it need have. An atmosphere of strained expectancy and unrest seemed to pervade the shadowy banquet-hall. Even Lord Ingoldsby, who had been regarding Carthew with sulky ill-will, could not but notice it.

"Isn't there a tame ghost of some sort about Loquhariot?" he asked Sallie, and, catching the duchess's eye, shrank into himself again under the glance she darted at him.

"Not another word about wraiths and spectres!" his youthful aunt ordered briskly. "We don't want our dinner spoiled with any such nonsense. The White Lady isn't a subject for table-talk, Ingoldsby. We've a skeleton in the cupboard at Dawn, too, you know, as every respectable Highland family has. But I fancy that what Mr. Carthew really saw to-day was simply some snow-laden bush."

"Dawn must be a very beautiful old place," Slyne remarked to the duchess, and Lord Ingoldsby turned toward Sallie again; as did Mr. Jobling after a glance of extreme disfavour at Carthew, on his other hand. And Carthew could not at all understand the general gravity, until Herries whispered over to him, under cover of the renewed conversation, "You haven't heard of our White Lady here, yet, Mr. Carthew. But she brings dule to the house, and—they say it was her that was seen in the woods this afternoon."

Carthew nodded. He had heard nothing of any such superstition, but knew enough already of the natives of those wilds to understand how they would cling to it. He thought for a moment of telling Herries that it was a man and no woman whom he had seen, but that would perhaps have disclosed too much to Captain Dove, and he decided to keep his own counsel until he could obtain some safer clue to all those mysteries.

Some movement in the little gallery above the buffet caught his attention, and he thought he could see the old housekeeper, Mrs. M'Kissock, at the balustrade with Ambrizette, Sallie's black maid, all eyes, looking down at the gathering. And the smile Sallie flashed at him as he looked at her told him she also knew that they were there.

Slyne grew somewhat distrait and restless as the long dinner ran its course, and Carthew had to devote more attention to the duchess. Among the rest of the company all seemed to be going well. Mr. Jobling and Lord Ingoldsby were both growing always more garrulous, and even Captain Dove had brightened up under the sunny influence of the rare vintages dispensed by the butler; he had got to the length of discussing the lights on that coast with Herries, the factor, before the pop of a cork at the buffet served to announce that the champagne was coming next.

Slyne was obviously about to claim the attention of the table. Carthew supposed he must be going to propose some toast, and wondered whether he did not know any better than that. But he waited till every glass was filled before he made any move, and when Sallie would have refused the wine he sent the butler back to her with a whispered message. At which, Carthew observed, a sudden pallor overspread her face; he was watching her very closely.

The rest of the company and the servants also looked round at Slyne in surprise as he rose, but Carthew did not. He had seen Sallie lift a filmy, lace-edged handkerchief from her lap—and caught sight of something that it was meant to conceal. She raised a clenched hand above the wine-glass before her, and Carthew could have sworn that he saw some colourless drops splash down on the bubbling champagne. Then she slipped her handkerchief out of sight again, and sat with bent head, idly twirling the stem of the wine-glass between her fingers, watching the white froth break at its brim.

And still Slyne said nothing. Carthew scarcely dared to glance up at him till he saw that Sallie was gazing that way with wonder and fear in her eyes.

Slyne was standing rigid. The glass he had lifted was tilting over, its contents dripping out on the table-cloth. His mouth was open, as if to speak, and his lips were moving but emitted no sound. He was staring fixedly into an obscure corner under the musicians' gallery, where was the service-doorway from which the piper always appeared.

The others had turned their eyes in the same direction. The very servants seemed to have lost all self-control, stood stricken, gasping, helpless. And no one even breathed as a shadowy figure came slowly shambling out of the dusk into the crimson light of the fire.

It halted, irresolute, a lean, stooping, bald-headed figure, with a haggard, foolish face contorted to hold a single eye-glass in place. On its forehead was a red smudge, as of iron-rust. It was wearing a disreputable, greasy blue uniform with not a few ragged rents in it. Its boots were equally shapeless and one was burst. There was snow on them.

Captain Dove was the first among the company to recover the power of speech.

"What the devil do you want here, Brasse!" he cried, in a choking voice, which yet was charged with relief as if from some paralysing fear.

But before the engineer could answer a word, Herries, the old factor, had risen shakily from his seat and shuffled across the floor toward him, was peering stupidly into his face, looking him up and down with eyes that were almost blind. The duchess had got up too. Slyne had sunk into his chair again, scowling blackly, pulling at his moustache. Lord Ingoldsby and Carthew and Mr. Jobling were still gazing blankly at the intruder. Sallie sat motionless, with one hand always at the stem of her wine-glass.

The duchess lifted the shade off one of the lights on the candelabra and looked still more searchingly at the engineer.

"Torquil St. Just!" she whispered at length, and "Lord St. Just!" cried Herries at the same moment.

The scarecrow with the eye-glass held out a slack hand to the old factor. "Hullo, Herries," he remarked, in a husky voice, "I didn't recognise you at first. You've aged a lot." And, glancing across at the duchess, "Isn't that Lady Jane Gairloch, Herries?" he asked in an audible aside. "She was only a slip of a girl, you know, old chap, when—I left home."

"She's the—Duchess—of Dawn, now,—my lord," answered Herries, the factor, helplessly. "And—you're Earl of Jura—now."