The Czar's Spy: The Mystery of a Silent Love
"I love the sea," she responded briefly, and her eyes were set straight
before her.
"Mr. Woodroffe has gone up to town, your mother says."
"Yes. He received a wire, and had to leave immediately. It was an awful
bore, for we had arranged to go for a picnic to Dundrennan Abbey
yesterday."
"But he'll be back here again, won't he?"
"I really don't know. It seems quite uncertain. I had a letter this
morning which said he might have to go over to Hamburg on business,
instead of coming up to us again."
There was disappointment in her voice, and yet at the same time I could
not fail to recognize how the man to whom she was engaged had fled from
Scotland because of my presence.
How I longed to ask her point-blank what she really knew of the
yachtsman who was shrouded in so much mystery. Yet by betraying any
undue anxiety I should certainly negative all my efforts to solve the
puzzling enigma, therefore I was compelled to remain content with asking
ingeniously disguised questions and drawing my own conclusions from her
answers.
As we passed along those graveled walks it somehow became vividly
impressed upon me that her marriage was being forced upon her by her
parents. Her manner was that of one who was concealing some strange and
terrible secret which she feared might be revealed. There was a distant
look of unutterable terror in those dark eyes as though she existed in
some constant and ever-present dread. Of course she told me nothing of
her own feelings or affections, yet I recognized in both her words and
her bearing a curious apathy--a want of the real enthusiasm of
affection. Woodroffe, much her senior, was her father's friend, and it
therefore seemed to me more than likely that Leithcourt was pressing a
matrimonial alliance upon his daughter for some ulterior motive. In the
mad hurry for place, power, and wealth, men relentlessly sell their
daughters in the matrimonial market, and ambitious mothers scheme and
intrigue for their own aggrandizement at sacrifice of their daughter's
happiness more often than the public ever dream. Tragedy is, alas!
written upon the face of many a bride whose portrait appears in the
fashion-papers and whose toilette is so faithfully chronicled in the
paragraph beneath. Indeed, the girl in Society who is allowed her own
free choice in the matter of a husband is, alas! nowadays the exception,
for parents who want to "get on" up the social scale have found that
pretty daughters are a marketable commodity, and many a man has been
placed "on his legs," both financially and socially, by his son-in-law.
Hence the marriage of convenience is fast becoming common, while in the
same ratio the divorce petitions are unfortunately on the increase.
I read tragedy in the dark luminous eyes of Muriel Leithcourt. I knew
that her young heart was over-burdened by some secret sorrow or guilty
knowledge that she would reveal to me if she dared. Her own words told
me that she was perplexed; that she longed to confide and seek advice
of someone, yet by reason of some hidden and untoward circumstance her
lips were sealed.
I tried to question her further regarding Woodroffe, of what profession
he followed and of his past.
But she evidently suspected me, for I had unfortunately mentioned the
_Lola_.
She wanted to speak to me in confidence, and yet she would reveal to me
nothing--absolutely nothing.
Martin Woodroffe did not rejoin the house-party at Rannoch.
Although I remained the guest of my uncle much longer than I intended,
indeed right through the shooting season, in order to watch the
Leithcourts, yet as far as we could judge they were extremely well-bred
people and very hospitable.
We exchanged a good many visits and dinners, and while my uncle several
times invited Leithcourt and his friends to his shoot with _al fresco_
luncheon, which the ladies joined, the tenant of Rannoch always invited
us back in return.
Thus I gained many opportunities of talking with Muriel, and of watching
her closely. I had the reputation of being a confirmed bachelor, and on
account of that it seemed that she was in no way averse to my
companionship. She could handle a rook-rifle as well as any woman, and
was really a very fair shot. Therefore we often found ourselves alone
tramping across the wide open moorland, or along those delightful glens
of the Nithsdale, glorious in the autumn tints of their luxurious
foliage.
Her father, on the other hand, seemed to view me with considerable
suspicion, and I could easily discern that I was only asked to Rannoch
because it was impossible to invite my uncle without including myself.
Leithcourt, who perhaps thought I was courting his daughter, was ever
endeavoring to avoid me, and would never allow me to walk with him
alone. Why? I wondered. Did he fear me? Had Woodroffe told him of our
strange encounter in Leghorn?
His pronounced antipathy towards me caused me to watch him
surreptitiously, and more closely than perhaps I should otherwise have
done. He was a man of gloomy mood, and often he would leave his guests
and take walks alone, musing and brooding. On several occasions I
followed him in secret, and found to my surprise that although he made
long detours in various directions, yet he always arrived at the same
spot at the same hour--five o'clock.
The place where he halted was on the edge of a dark wood on the brow of
a hill about three miles from Rannoch--a good place to get woodpigeon,
as they came to roost. It was fully two miles across the hills from the
high road to Moniaive, and from the break the gray wall where he was in
the habit of sitting to rest and smoke, there stretched the beautiful
panorama of Loch Urr and the heatherclad hills beyond.
Leithcourt never went direct to the place, but always so timed his walks
that he arrived just at five, and remained there smoking cigarettes
until half-past, as though awaiting the arrival of some person he
expected. Once or twice his guests suggested shooting pigeons at
sundown, but he always had some excuse for opposing the proposal, and
thus the party, unsuspecting the reason, were kept away from that
particular lonely spot.
In my youth I had sat many a quiet hour there in the darkening gloom and
shot many a pigeon, therefore I knew the wood well, and was able to
watch the tenant of Rannoch from points where he least suspected the
presence of another.
Once, when I was alone with Muriel, I mentioned her father's capacity
for walking alone, whereupon she said--
"Oh, yes, he was always fond of walking. He used to take me with him
when we first came here, but he always went so far that I refused to go
any more."
She never once mentioned Woodroffe. I allowed her plenty of opportunity
for doing so, chaffing her about her forthcoming marriage in order that
she might again refer to him. But never did his name pass her lips. I
understood that he had gone abroad--that was all.
Often when alone I reflected upon my curious adventure on that night
when I met Olinto, and of my narrow escape from the hands of my unknown
enemies. I wondered if that ingenious and dastardly attempt upon my life
had really any connection with that strange incident at Leghorn. As day
succeeded day, my mind became filled by increasing suspicion. Mystery
surrounded me on every hand.
Indeed, by one curious fact alone it was increased a hundredfold.
Late one afternoon, when I had been out shooting all day with the
Rannoch party, I drove back to the castle in the Perth-cart with three
other men, and found the ladies assembled in the great hall with tea
ready. A welcome log-fire was blazing in the huge old grate, for in
October it is chilly and damp in Scotland and a fire is pleasant at
evening.
Muriel was seated upon the high padded fender--like those one has at
clubs--which always formed a cosy spot for the ladies, especially after
dinner. When I entered, she rose quickly and handed me my cup,
exclaiming as she looked at me--
"Oh, Mr. Gregg! what a state you are in!"
"Yes, I was after snipe, and slipped into a bog," I laughed. "But it
was early this morning, and the mud has dried."
"Come with me, and I'll get you a brush," she urged. And I followed her
through the long corridors and upstairs to a small sitting-room which
was her own little sanctum, where she worked and read--a cosy little
place with two queer old windows in the colossal wall, and a floor of
polished oak, and great black beams above. When the owner had occupied
the house that room had been disused, but it had, I found, been now
completely transformed, and was a most tasteful little nest of luxury
with its bright chintzes, its Turkey rugs and its cheerful fire on the
old stone hearth.
She laughed when I expressed admiration of her little den, and said--
"I believe it was the armory in the old days. But it makes quite a comfy
little boudoir. I can lock myself in and be quite quiet when the party
are too noisy," she added merrily.
But as my eyes wandered around they suddenly fell upon an object which
caused me to start with profound wonder--a cabinet photograph in a frame
of crimson leather.
The picture was that of a young girl--a duplicate of the portrait I had
found torn across and flung aside on board the _Lola_!
The merry eyes laughed out at me as I stood staring at it in sheer
bewilderment.
"What a pretty girl!" I exclaimed quickly, concealing my surprise. "Who
is she?"
My companion was silent a moment, her dark eyes meeting mine with a
strange look of inquiry.
"Yes," she laughed, "everyone admires her. She was a schoolfellow of
mine--Elma Heath."
"Heath!" I echoed. "Where was she at school with you?"
"At Chichester."
"Long ago?"
"A little over two years."
"She's very beautiful!" I declared, taking up the photograph and
discovering that it bore the name of the same well-known photographer in
New Bond Street as that I had found on the carpet of the _Lola_ in the
Mediterranean.
"Yes. She's really prettier than her photograph. It hardly does her
justice."
"And where is she now?"
"Why are you so very inquisitive, Mr. Gregg?" laughed the handsome girl.
"Have you actually fallen in love with her from her picture?"
"I'm hardly given to that kind of thing, Miss Leithcourt," I answered
with mock severity. "I don't think even my worst enemy could call me a
flirt, could she?"
"No. I will give you your due," she declared. "You never do flirt. That
is why I like you."
"Thanks for your candor, Miss Leithcourt," I said.
"Only," she added, "you seem smitten with Elma's charms."
"I think she's extremely pretty," I remarked, with the photograph still
in my hand. "Do you ever see her now?"
"Never," she replied. "Since the day I left school we have never met.
She was several years younger than myself, and I heard that a week after
I left Chichester her people came and took her away. Where she is now I
have no idea. Her people lived somewhere in Durham. Her father was a
doctor."
Her reply disappointed me. Yet I had, at least, retained knowledge of
the name of the original of the picture, and from the photographer I
might perhaps discover her address, for to me it seemed that she was
somehow intimately connected with those mysterious yachtsmen.
What Muriel told me concerning her, I did not doubt for a single
instant. Yet it was certainly more than a coincidence that a copy of the
picture which had created such a deep impression upon me should be
preserved in her own little boudoir as a souvenir of a devoted
school-friend.
"Then you have heard absolutely nothing as to her present position or
whereabouts--whether she is married, for instance?"
"Ah!" she cried mischievously. "You betray yourself by your own words.
You have fallen in love with her, I really believe, Mr. Gregg. If she