Week after week passed.

Spring was slowly developing into summer and the woods around Blairglas, the fine estate in Perthshire which old Sir Richard Ranscomb had left to his wife, were delightful.

Blairglas Castle, a grand old turreted pile, was perched on the edge of a wooded glen through which flowed a picturesque burn well known to tourists in Scotland. Once Blairglas Burn had been a mighty river which had, in the bygone ages, worn its way deep through the grey granite down to the broad Tay and onward to the sea. On the estate was some excellent salmon-fishing, as well as grouse on Blairglas Moor, and trout in Blairglas Loch. Here Lady Ranscomb entertained her wealthy Society friends, and certainly she did so lavishly and well. Twice each year she went up for the fishing and for the shooting. Old Sir Richard, notwithstanding his gout, had been fond of sport, and for that reason he had given a fabulous price for the place, which had belonged to a certain Duke who, like others, had become impoverished by excessive taxation and the death duties.

Built in the fifteenth century as a fortress, it was, for a time, the home of James V. after his marriage with Mary of Guise. It was to Blairglas that, after his defeat on Solway Moss, he retired, subsequently dying of a broken heart. Twenty years later Darnley, the elegant husband of Mary Stuart, had lived there, and on the level bowling green he used to indulge in his favourite sport.

The grim old place, with its towers, its dimly-lit long stone corridors, cyclopean ivy-clad walls, narrow windows, and great panelled chambers, breathed an atmosphere of the long ago. So extensive was it that only one wing—that which looked far down the glen to the blue distant mountains—had been modernised; yet that, in itself, was sufficiently spacious for the entertainment of large house-parties.

One morning, early in June, Dorise, in a rough tweed suit and a pearl-grey suede tam-o’shanter, carrying a mackintosh across her shoulder, and accompanied by a tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven man of thirty-two, with rather thick lips and bushy eyebrows, walked down through the woods to the river. The man, who was in fishing clothes, sauntered at her side, smoking a cigarette; while behind them came old Sandy Murray, the grizzled, fair-bearded head keeper, carrying the salmon rods, the gaff, creel, and luncheon basket.

“The spate is excellent for us,” exclaimed George Sherrard. “We ought to kill a salmon to-day, Dorise.”

“I sincerely hope so,” replied the girl; “but somehow I never have any luck in these days.”

“No, you really don’t! But Marjorie killed a twelve-pounder last week, your mother tells me.”

“Yes. She went out with Murray every day for a whole fortnight, and then on the day before she went back to town she landed a splendid fish.”

On arrival at the bank of the broad shallow Tay, Murray stepped forward, and in his pleasant Perthshire accent suggested that a trial might be made near the Ardcraig, a short walk to the left.

After fixing the rods and baiting them, the head keeper discreetly withdrew, leaving the pair alone. In the servants’ hall at Blairglas it was quite understood that Miss Dorise and Mr. Sherrard were to marry, and that the announcement would be made in due course.

“What a lovely day—and what a silent, delightful spot,” Sherrard remarked, as he filled his pipe preparatory to walking up-stream, while the girl remained beside the dark pool where sport seemed likely.

“Yes,” she replied, inwardly wishing to get rid of her companion so as to be left alone with her own thoughts. “I’ll remain here for a little and then go down-stream to the end of our water.”

“Right oh!” he replied cheerily as he moved away.

Dorise breathed more freely when he had gone.

George Sherrard had arrived from London quite unexpectedly at nine o’clock on the previous morning. She had been alone with her mother after the last guest of a gay house-party had departed, when, unknown to Dorise, Lady Ranscomb had telegraphed to her friend George to “run up for a few days’ fishing.”

Lady Ranscomb’s scheme was to throw the pair into each other’s society as much as possible. She petted George, flattered him, and in every way tried to entertain him with one sole object, namely, to induce him to propose to Dorise, and so get the girl “off her hands.”

On the contrary, the girl’s thoughts were for ever centred upon Hugh, even though he remained under that dark cloud of suspicion. To her the chief element in the affair was the mystery why her lover had gone on that fateful night to the Villa Amette, the house of that notorious Mademoiselle. What had really occurred?

Twice she had received letters from him brought to her by the mysterious girl-messenger from Belgium. From them she knew how grey and dull was his life, hiding there from those who were so intent upon his arrest.

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.

“Never mind,” he said, “I’ve had similar luck. I’ve just got hooked up in a root and lost a fly. Let’s have lunch—shall we?”

Dorise was in no mood to lunch with her mother’s visitor, but, nevertheless, was compelled to be polite.

After washing their hands in the stream, they sat down together upon a great, grey boulder that had been worn smooth by the action of the water, and, taking out their sandwiches, began to eat them.

“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Sherrard suddenly, after they had been gossiping for some time. “Have you heard from your friend Henfrey lately?”

“Not lately,” replied the girl, a trifle resentful that he should obtrude upon her private affairs.

“I only ask because—well, because there are some jolly queer stories going about town of him.”

“Queer stories!” she echoed quickly. “What are they? What do people say?”

“Oh! They say lots of extraordinary things. I think your mother has done very well to drop him.”

“Has mother dropped him?” asked the girl in pretence of ignorance.

“She told me so last night, and I was extremely glad to hear it—though he is your friend. It seems that he’s hardly the kind of fellow you should know, Dorise.”

“Why do you say that?” his companion asked, her eyes flashing instantly.

“What! Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The story that’s going round the clubs. He’s missing, and has been so for quite a long time. You haven’t seen him—have you?”

The girl was compelled to reply in the negative.

“But what do they say against him?” she demanded breathlessly.

“There’s a lot of funny stories,” was Sherrard’s reply. “They say he’s hiding from the police because he attempted to murder a notorious woman called Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo. Do you know about it?”

“It’s a wicked lie!” blurted forth the girl. “Hugh never attempted to kill the woman!”

Sherrard looked straight into her blue eyes, and asked:

“Then why was he in her room at midnight? They say the reason Henfrey is hard-up is because he spent all he possessed upon the woman, and on going there that night she laughed him to scorn and told him she had grown fond of a rich Austrian banker. After mutual recriminations, Henfrey, knowing the woman had ruined him, drew out a revolver and shot her.”

“I tell you it’s an abominable lie! Hugh is not an assassin!” cried the girl fiercely.

“I merely repeat what I have heard on very good authority,” replied the smug-faced man with the thick red lips.

“And you have of course told my mother that—eh?”

“I didn’t think it was any secret,” he said. “Indeed, I think it most fortunate we all know the truth. The police must get him one day—before long.”

For a few moments Dorise remained silent, her eyes fixed across the broad river to the opposite bank.

“And if they do, he will most certainly clear himself, Mr. Sherrard,” she said coldly.

“Ah! You still have great faith in him,” he laughed airily. “Well—we shall see,” and he grinned.

“Yes, Mr. Sherrard. I still have faith in Mr. Henfrey. I know him well enough to be certain that he is no assassin.”

“Then I ask you, Dorise, why is he hiding?” said her companion. “If he is innocent, what can he fear?”

“I know he is innocent.”

“Of course. You must remain in that belief until he is found guilty.”

“You already condemn him!” the girl cried in anger. “By what right do you do this, I ask?”

“Well, common sense shows that he is in fear lest the truth should come to light,” was Sherrard’s lame reply. “He escaped very cleverly from Monte Carlo the moment he heard that the police suspected him, but where is he now? Nobody knows. Haynes, of Scotland Yard, who made the inquiries when my flat in Park Lane was broken into, tells me they have had a description of him from the Paris police, and that a general hue-and-cry has been circulated.”

“But the woman is still alive, is she not?”

“Yes. She’s a hopeless idiot, Haynes tells me. She had developed homicidal mania as a result of the bullet wound in the head, and they have had to send her to a private asylum at Cannes. She’s there in close confinement.”

Dorise paused. Her anger had risen, and her cheeks were flushed. The sandwich she was eating choked her, so she cast it into the river.

Then she rose abruptly, and looking very straight into the man’s eyes, said:

“I consider, Mr. Sherrard, that you are absolutely horrid. Mr. Henfrey is a friend of mine, and whatever gossip there is concerning him I will not believe until I hear his story from his own lips.”

“I merely tell you of the report from France to Scotland Yard,” said Sherrard.

“You tell me this in order to prejudice me against Hugh—to—to——”

“Hugh! Whom you love—eh?” sneered Sherrard.

“Yes. I do love him,” the girl blurted forth. “I make no secret of it. And if you like you can tell my mother that! You are very fond of acting as her factotum!”

“It is to be regretted, Dorise, that you have fallen in love with a fellow who is wanted by the police,” he remarked with a sigh.

“At any rate, I love a genuine man,” she retorted with bitter sarcasm. “I know my mother’s intention is that I shall marry you. But I tell you here frankly—as I stand here—I would rather kill myself first!”

George Sherrard with his dark bushy brows and thick lips only laughed at her indignation. This incensed her the more.

“Yes,” she went on. “You may be amused at my distress. You have laughed at the distress of other women, Mr. Sherrard. Do not think that I am blind. I have watched you, and I know more concerning your love affairs of the past than you ever dream. So please leave Blairglas as soon as you can with decency excuse yourself, and keep away from me in future.”

“But really, Dorise——!” he cried, advancing towards her.

“I mean exactly what I say. Let me get back. When I go fishing I prefer to go alone,” the girl said.

“But what am I to say to Lady Ranscomb?”

“Tell her that I love Hugh,” laughed the girl defiantly. “Tell her that I intend to defeat all her clever intrigues and sly devices!”

His countenance now showed that he was angry. He and Lady Ranscomb thoroughly understood each other. He admired the girl, and her mother had assured him her affection for Hugh Henfrey was but a passing fancy. This stubborn outburst was to him a complete revelation.

“I have no knowledge of any intrigue, Dorise,” he said in that bland, superior manner which always irritated her. She knew that a dozen mothers with eligible feminine encumbrances were trying to angle him, and that Lady Ranscomb was greatly envied by them. But to be the wife of the self-conscious ass—well, as she has already bluntly told him, she would die rather than become Mrs. George Sherrard.

“Intrigue!” the girl retorted. “Why, from first to last the whole thing is a plot between my mother and yourself. Please give me credit for just a little intelligence. First, I despise you as a coward. During the war you crept into a little clerkship in the Home Office in order to save your precious skin, while Hugh went to the front and risked his life flying a ‘bomber’ over the enemy’s lines. You were a miserable stay-at-home, hiding in your little bolt-hole in Whitehall when the Zepps came over, while Hugh Henfrey fought for his King and for Britain. Now I am quite frank, Mr. Sherrard. That’s why I despise you!” and the girl’s pale face showed two pink spots in the centre of her cheeks.

“Really,” he said in that same superior tone which he so constantly assumed. “I must say that you are the reverse of polite, Miss Dorise,” and his colour heightened.

“I am! And I intend to be so!” she cried in a frenzy, for all her affection for Hugh had in those moments been redoubled. Her lover was accused and had no chance of self-defence. “Go back to my mother,” she went on. “Tell her every word I have said and embroider it as much as you like. Then you can both put your wits together a little further. But, remember, I shall exert my own woman’s wits against yours. And as soon as you feel it practicable, I hope you will leave Blairglas. And further, if you have not left by noon to-morrow, I will tell my maid, Duncan, the whole story of this sinister plot to part me from Hugh. She will spread it, I assure you. Maids gossip—and to a purpose when their mistresses will it so.”

“But Dorise—”

“Enough! Mr. Sherrard. I prefer to walk up to the Castle by myself. Murray will bring up the rods. Please tell my mother what I say when you get back,” she added. “The night train from Perth to London leaves at nine-forty to-night,” she said with biting sarcasm.

Then turning, she began to ascend the steep path which led from the river bank into a cornfield and through the wood, while the man stood and bit his lip.

“H’m!” he growled beneath his breath. “We shall see!—yes, we shall see!”