The Czar's Spy: The Mystery of a Silent Love
What could she possibly know concerning the mysterious craft?
"I don't know the owner's name," I said, still affecting not to have
noticed her alarm and apprehension. "The vessel ran aground at the
Meloria, a dangerous shoal outside Leghorn, and through the stupidity of
her captain was very nearly lost."
"Yes?" she gasped, in a half-whisper, bending to me eagerly, unable to
sufficiently conceal the terrible anxiety consuming her. "And you--did
you go aboard her?"
"Yes," was the only word I uttered.
A silence fell between us, and as my eyes fixed themselves upon her, I
saw that from her handsome mobile countenance all the light and life had
suddenly gone out, and I knew that she was in secret possession of the
key to that remarkable enigma that so puzzled me.
Of a sudden the door opened, and a voice cried gayly--
"Why, I've been looking everywhere for you, Muriel. Why are you hidden
here? Aren't you coming?"
We both turned, and as she did so a low cry of blank dismay
involuntarily escaped her.
Next instant I sprang to my feet. The reason of her cry was apparent,
for there, in the full light of the golden sunset streaming through the
long open windows, stood a broad-shouldered, fair-bearded man in tennis
flannels and a Panama hat--the fugitive I knew as Philip Hornby!
I faced him, speechless.
CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES
Neither of us spoke. Equally surprised at the unexpected encounter, we
stood facing each other dumbfounded.
Hornby started quickly as soon as his eyes fell upon me, and his face
became blanched to the lips, while Muriel Leithcourt, quick to notice
the sudden change in him, rose and introduced us in as calm a voice as
she could command.
"I don't think you are acquainted," she said to me with a smile. "This
is Mr. Martin Woodroffe--Mr. Gordon Gregg."
I bowed to him in sudden resolve to remain silent in pretense that I
doubted whether the man before me was actually my host of the _Lola_. I
intended to act as though I was not sufficiently convinced to openly
express my doubt. Therefore we bowed, exchanging greetings as strangers,
while, carefully watching, I saw how greatly the minds of both were
relieved. They shot meaning glances at each other, and then, as though
reassured that I was mystified and uncertain, the man who called himself
Woodroffe explained to my companion------
"I've been over to Newton Stewart with Fred all day, and only got back a
quarter of an hour ago. Aren't you playing any more to-day?"
"I think not," was her reply. "We've been out there the whole afternoon,
and I'm rather tired. But they're still on the lawn. You can surely get
a game with someone."
"If you don't play, I shan't. I returned to keep the promise I made
this morning," he laughed, standing before the big open fireplace,
holding his tennis racquet behind his back.
I examined his countenance, and was more than ever convinced that he was
actually the man who gave me the name of Hornby and the false address in
Somerset. The pair seemed to be on familiar terms, and I wondered
whether they were engaged. In any case, the man seemed quite at home
there.
As he chatted with the daughter of the house, he cast a quick, covert
glance at me, and then darted a meaning look at her--a look of renewed
confidence, as though he felt that he had successfully averted any
suspicions I might have held.
We talked of the prospects of the grouse and the salmon, and from his
remarks he seemed to be as keen at sport as he had once made out himself
to be at yachting.
"My friend Leithcourt is awfully fortunate in getting such a splendid
old place as this. On every hand I hear glowing accounts of the number
of birds. The place has been well preserved in the past, and there's
plenty of good cover."
"Yes," I said. "Gilrae, the owner, is a keen sportsman, and before he
became so hard up he spent a lot of money on the estate, which, I
believe, has always been considered one of the very best in the
southwest. There's salmon, they say, down in the Glen yonder--but I've
never tried for any."
"Certainly there is. I've seen several. I hope to try one of these days.
The Glen is deep and shady--an ideal place for fish. The only
disappointment here, as far as I can make out, is the very few head of
black-game."
"Yes, but every year they are getting rarer and rarer in this part of
Scotland. A really fine black-cock is quite an event nowadays," I said.
While we were talking, or rather while I was carefully watching the
rapid working of his mind, Leithcourt himself entered and joined us. He
had been playing tennis, and had come in to rest and cool.
Host and guest were evidently on the most intimate terms. Leithcourt
addressed him as "Martin," and began to relate a quarrel which his
head-gamekeeper had had that day with one of the small farmers on the
estate regarding the killing of some rabbits. And while they were
talking Muriel suggested that we should stroll down to the tennis-courts
again, an invitation which, much as I regretted leaving the two men, I
was bound to accept.
It seemed as though she wished purposely to take me away from that man's
presence, fearing that by remaining there longer my suspicions might
become confirmed. She was acting in conjunction with the man whom I had
known as Hornby.
There were still a good many people watching the game, for it was
pleasant in those old-world gardens in the sunset hour. The dried-up
moat was now transformed into a garden filled with rhododendrons and
bright azaleas, while the high ancient beech-hedges, the quaint old
sundial with its motto: "Each time ye shadowe turneth ys one daye nearer
unto dethe," and the old stone balustrades gray with lichen, all spoke
mutely of those glorious days when the fierce horsemen of the Lairds of
Rannoch were feared across the Border, and when many a prisoner of the
Black Douglas had pined and died in those narrow stone chambers in the
grim north tower that still stood high above.
Among the party strolling and lounging there prior to departure were
quite a number of people I knew, people who had shooting-boxes in the
vicinity and were my uncle's friends. In Scotland there is always a
hearty hospitality among the sporting folk, and the laws of caste are
far less rigorous than they are in England.
I was standing chatting with two ladies who were about to take leave of
their hostess, when Leithcourt returned, but alone. Hornby had not
accompanied him. Was it because he feared to again meet me?
In order to ascertain something regarding the man who had so
mysteriously fled from Leghorn, I managed by the exercise of a little
diplomacy to sit on the lawn with a young married woman named Tennant,
wife of a cavalry captain, who was one of the house-party. After a
little time I succeeded in turning the conversation to her fellow
guests, and more particularly to the man I knew as Hornby.
"Oh! Mr. Woodroffe is most amusing," declared the bright little woman.
"He's always playing some practical joke or other. After dinner he is
usually the life and soul of our party."
"Yes," I said, "I like what little I have seen of him. He's a very good
fellow, I should say. I've heard that he's engaged to Muriel," I
hazarded. "Is that true?"
"Of course. They've been engaged nearly a year, but he's been abroad
until quite lately. He is rather close about his own affairs, and never
talks about his travels and adventures, although one day Mr. Leithcourt
declared that his hairbreadth escapes would make a most exciting book if
ever written."
"Leithcourt and he are evidently most intimate friends."
"Oh, quite inseparable!" she laughed. "And the other man who is always
with them is that short, stout, red-faced old fellow standing over there
with the lady in pale blue, Sir Ughtred Gardner. Mr. Woodroffe has
nicknamed him 'Sir Putrid.'" And we both laughed. "Of course, don't say
I said so," she whispered. "They don't call him that to his face, but
it's so easy to make a mistake in his name when he's not within hearing.
We women don't care for him, so the nickname just fits."
And she gossiped on, telling me much that I desired to know regarding
the new tenant of Rannoch and his friends, and more especially of that
man who had first introduced himself to me in the Consulate at Leghorn.
Half an hour later my uncle's carriage was announced, and I left with
the distinct impression that there was some deep mystery surrounding the
Leithcourts. What it was, however, I could not, for the life of me, make
out. Perhaps it was Philip Leithcourt's intimate relation with the man
who had so cleverly deceived me that incited my curiosity concerning
him; perhaps it was that mysterious intuition, that curious presage of
evil that sometimes comes to a man as warning of impending peril.
Whatever the reason, I had become filled with grave apprehensions. The
mystery grew deeper day by day, and was inexplicable.
During the week that followed I sought to learn all I could regarding
the new people at the castle.
"They are taken up everywhere," declared my aunt when I questioned her.
"Of course, we knew very little of them, except that they had a shoot up
near Fort William two years ago, and that they have a town house in
Green Street. They are evidently rather smart folks. Don't you think
so?"
"Judging from their house-party, yes," I responded. "They are about as
gay a crowd as one could find north of Carlisle just at present."
"Exactly. There are some well-known people among them, too," said my
aunt. "I've asked them over to-morrow afternoon, and they've accepted."
"Excellent!" I exclaimed, for I wanted an opportunity for another chat
with the dark-eyed girl who was engaged to the man whose alias was
Hornby. I particularly desired to ascertain the reason of her fear when
I had mentioned the _Lola_, and whether she possessed any knowledge of
Hylton Chater.
The opportunity came to me in due course, for next afternoon the Rannoch
party drove over in two large brakes, and with other people from the
neighborhood and a band from Dumfries, my aunt's grounds presented a gay
and animated scene. There was the usual tennis and croquet, while some
of the men enjoyed a little putting on the excellent course my uncle, a
golf enthusiast, had recently laid down.
As I expected, Woodroffe did not accompany the party. Mrs. Leithcourt, a
slightly fussy little woman, apologized for his absence, explaining that
he had been recalled to London suddenly a few days before, but was
returning to Rannoch again at the end of the week.
"We couldn't afford to lose him," she declared to my aunt. "He is so
awfully humorous--his droll sayings and antics keep us in a perfect roar
each night at dinner. He's such a perfect mimic."
I turned away and strolled with Muriel, pleading an excuse to show her
my uncle's beautiful grounds, not a whit less picturesque than those of
the castle, and perhaps rather better kept.
"I only heard yesterday of your engagement, Miss Leithcourt," I remarked
presently when we were alone. "Allow me to offer my best
congratulations. When you introduced me to Mr. Woodroffe the other day I
had no idea that he was to be your husband."
She glanced at me quickly, and I saw in her dark eyes a look of
suspicion. Then she flushed slightly, and laughing uneasily said, in a
blank, hard voice--
"It's very good of you, Mr. Gregg, to wish me all sorts of such pleasant
things."
"And when is the happy event to take place?"
"The date is not exactly fixed--early next year, I believe," and I
thought she sighed.
"And you will probably spend a good deal of time yachting?" I suggested,
my eyes fixed upon her in order to watch the result of my pointed
remark. But she controlled herself perfectly.