Captain Ryecroft's start at seeing a woman within the pavilion was less from surprise than an emotion due to memory. When he last saw his betrothed alive, it was in that same place, and almost in a similar attitude—leaning over the baluster rail. Besides, many other souvenirs cling around the spot, which the sight vividly recalls; and so painfully, that he at once turns his eyes away from it, nor again looks back. He has an idea who the woman is, though personally knowing her not, nor ever having seen her.

The incident agitates him a little; but he is soon calm again, and for some time after sits silent—in no dreamy reverie, but actively cogitating, though not of it or her. His thoughts are occupied with a discovery he has made in his exploration just ended. An important one, bearing on the suspicion he had conceived almost proving it correct. Of all the facts that came before the coroner and his jury, none more impressed them, nor perhaps so much influenced their finding, as the tale-telling traces upon the face of the cliff. Nor did they arrive at their conclusion with any undue haste or light deliberation. Before deciding, they had taken boat, and from below more minutely inspected them. But with their first impression unaltered—or only strengthened—that the abrasions on the soft sandstone rock were made by a falling body, and the bush borne down by the same. And what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? Living or dead, springing off, or pitched over, they could not determine. Hence the ambiguity of their verdict.

Very different the result reached by Captain Ryecroft after viewing the same. In his Indian campaigns, the ex-cavalry officer, belonging to the "Light," had his share of scouting experience. It enables him to read "sign" with the skill of trapper or prairie hunter; and on the moment his lamp threw its light against the cliff's face, he knew the scratches were not caused by anything that came down, since they had been made from below! And by some blunt instrument, as the blade of a boat oar. Then the branches of the juniper. Soon as getting his eyes close to them, he saw they had been broken inward, their drooping tops turned toward the cliff, not from it! A falling body would have bent them in an opposite direction, and the fracture been from the upper and inner side! Everything indicated their having been crushed from below—not by the same boat's oar, but likely enough by the hands that held it!

It was on reaching this conclusion that Captain Ryecroft gave involuntary utterance to the exclamatory words heard by him lying flat among the ferns above, the last one sending a thrill of fear through his heart.

And upon it the ex-officer of Hussars is still reflecting as he returns up stream.

Since the command given to Wingate to row him back, he has not spoken, not even to make remark about that suggestive thing seen in the summer-house above—though the other has observed it also. Facing that way, the waterman has his eyes on it for a longer time. But the bearing of the Captain admonishes him that he is not to speak till spoken to; and he silently tugs at his oars, leaving the other to his reflections.

These are, that Gwendoline Wynn has been surely assassinated, though not by being thrown over the cliff. Possibly not drowned at all, but her body dropped into the water where found—conveyed thither after life was extinct! The scoring of the rock and the snapping of the twigs, all that done to mislead, as it had misled everybody but himself. To him it has brought conviction that there has been a deed of blood—done by the hand of another. "No accident—no suicide—murdered!"

He is not questioning the fact, nor speculating upon the motive now. The last has been already revolved in his mind, and is clear as daylight. To such a man as he has heard Lewin Murdock to be, an estate worth £10,000 a year would tempt to crime, even the capital one, which certainly he has committed. Ryecroft only thinks of how he can prove its committal—bring the deed of guilt home to the guilty one. It may be difficult—impossible; but he will do his best.

Embarked in the enterprise, he is considering what will be the best course to pursue—pondering upon it. He is not the man to act rashly at any time, but in a matter of such moment caution is especially called for. He is already on the track of a criminal who has displayed no ordinary cunning, as proved by that misguiding sign. A false move made, or word spoken in careless confidence, by exposing his purpose, may defeat it. For this reason he has hitherto kept his intention to himself—not having given a hint of it to any one.

From Jack Wingate it cannot be longer withheld, nor does he wish to withhold it. Instead, he will take him into his confidence, knowing he can do so with safety. That the young waterman is no prating fellow he has already had proof, while of his loyalty he never doubted.

First, to find out what Jack's own thoughts are about the whole thing. For since their last being in a boat together, on that fatal night, little speech has passed between them. Only a few words on the day of the inquest, when Captain Ryecroft himself was too excited to converse calmly, and before the dark suspicion had taken substantial shape in his mind.

Once more opposite the poplar, he directs the skiff to be brought to. Which done, he sits just as when that sound startled him on return from the ball—apparently thinking of it, as in reality he is.

For a minute or so he is silent; and one might suppose he listened, expecting to hear it again. But no; he is only, as on the way down, making note of the distance to the Llangorren grounds. The summer-house he cannot now see, but judges the spot where it stands by some tall trees he knows to be beside it.

The waterman observing him, is not surprised when at length asked the question,—

"Don't you believe, Wingate, the cry came from above—I mean from the top of the cliff?"

"I'm a'most sure it did. I thought at the time it comed from higher ground still—the house itself. You remember my sayin' so, Captain; and that I took it to be some o' the sarvint girls shoutin' up there."

"I do remember—you did. It was not, alas! but their mistress."

"Yes; she for sartin, poor young lady! We now know that."

"Think back, Jack! Recall it to your mind; the tone, the length of time it lasted—everything. Can you?"

"I can, an' do. I could all but fancy I hear it now!"

"Well, did it strike you as a cry that would come from one falling over the cliff—by accident, or otherwise?"

"It didn't; an' I don't yet believe it wor—accydent or no accydent."

"No! What are your reasons for doubting it?"

"Why, if it had a been a woman eyther fallin' over or flung, she'd ha' gied tongue a second time—ay, a good many times—'fore getting silenced. It must ha' been into the water, an' people don't drown at the first goin' down. She'd ha' riz to the surface once, if not twice; an' screeched sure. We couldn't ha' helped hearin' it. Ye remember, Captain, 'twor dead calm for a spell just precedin' the thunderstorm. When that cry come, ye might ha' heerd the leap o' a trout a quarter mile off. But it worn't repeated—not so much as a mutter."

"Quite true. But what do you conclude from its not having been?"

"That she who gied the shriek wor in the grasp o' somebody when she did it, an' wor silenced instant by bein' choked or smothered; same as they say's done by them scoundrels called garroters."

"You said nothing of this at the inquest?"

"No, I didn't, for several reasons. One, I wor so took by surprise, just home, an' hearin' what had happened. Besides, the crowner didn't question me on my feelin's—only about the facts o' the case. I answered all his questions, clear as I could remember, an' far's I then understood things; but not as I understand them now."

"Ah! you have learnt something since?"

"Not a thing, Captain—only what I've been thinkin' o', by rememberin' a circumstance I'd forgot."

"What?"

"Well, whiles I wor sittin' in the skiff that night, waitin' for you to come, I heerd a sound different from the hootin' o' them owls."

"Indeed! What sort of sound?"

"The plashing o' oars. There wor sartin another boat about there besides this one."

"In what direction did you hear them?"

"From above. It must ha' been that way. If't had been a boat gone up from below, I'd ha' noticed the stroke again across the strip o' island. But I didn't."

"The same if one had passed on down."

"Just so; an' for that reason I now believe it wor comin' down, an' stopped somewhere just outside the backwash."

An item of intelligence new to the Captain as it is significant. He recalls the hour—between two and three o'clock in the morning. What boat could have been there but his own? And if other, what its business?

"You're quite sure there was a boat, Wingate?" he asks, after a pause.

"The oars o' one—that I'm quite sure o'. An' where there's smoke, fire can't be far off. Yes, Captain, there wor a boat about there. I'm willin' to swear to it."

"Have you any idea whose?"

"Well, no; only some conjecter. First hearin' the oar, I wor under the idea it might be Dick Dempsey, out salmon-stealin'. But at the second plunge I could tell it wor no paddle, but a pair of regular oars. They gied but two or three strokes, an' then stopped suddintly; not as though the boat had been rowed back, but brought up against the bank, an' there layed."

"You don't think it was Dick and his coracle, then?"

"I'm sure it worn't the coracle, but ain't so sure about its not bein' him. 'Stead, from what happened that night, an's been a-happenin' ever since, I b'lieve he wor one o' the men in that boat."

"You think there were others?"

"I do—leastways, suspect it."

"And who do you suspect besides?"

"For one, him as used live up there, but's now livin' in Llangorren."

They have long since parted from the place where they made stop opposite the poplar, and are now abreast the Cuckoo's Glen, going on. It is to Glyngog House Wingate alludes, visible up the ravine, the moon gleaming upon its piebald walls and lightless windows—for it is untenanted.

"You mean Mr. Murdock?"

"The same, Captain. Though he worn't at the ball, as I've heerd say—and might ha' know'd without tellin'—I've got an idea he bean't far off when 'twor breakin' up. An' there wor another there, too, beside Dick Dempsey."

"A third! Who?"

"He as lives a bit further above."

"You mean——?"

"The French priest. Them three ain't often far apart; an' if I bean't astray in my reck'nin', they were mighty close thegither that same night, an' nigh Llangorren Court. They're all in or about it now, the precious tribang, an' I'd bet big they've got footin' there by the foulest o' foul play. Yes, Captain, sure as we be sittin' in this boat, she as owned the place ha' been murdered, the men as done it bein' Lewin Murdock, Dick Dempsey, and the Roman priest o' Rogues!"