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.
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