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.
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