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.