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
