“Ah, I know!” exclaimed the mysterious visitor in a tone of sympathy.  “You are uncertain in your conclusions because of your terrible affliction.  Sometimes, alas! my dear friend, you are imposed upon, because you are blind.”

“Yes,” responded the other, bitterly.  “That is the truth, Goslin.  Because I cannot see like other men, I have been deceived—­foully and grossly deceived and betrayed!  But—­but,” he cried, “they thought to ruin me, and I’ve tricked them, Goslin—­yes, tricked them!  Have no fear.  For the present our secrets are our own!”

CHAPTER XVIII

REVEALS THE SPY

The Twelfth—­the glorious Twelfth—­had come and gone.  “The rush to the North” had commenced from London.  From Euston, St. Pancras, and King’s Cross the night trains for Scotland had run in triplicate, crowded by men and gun-cases and kit-bags, while gloomy old Perth station was a scene of unwonted activity each morning.

At Glencardine there were little or no grouse; therefore it was not until later that Sir Henry invited his usual party.

Gabrielle had been south to visit one of her girlfriends near Durham, and the week of her absence her afflicted father had spent in dark loneliness, for Flockart had gone to London, and her ladyship was away on a fortnight’s visit to the Pelhams, down at New Galloway.

On the last day of August, however, Gabrielle returned, being followed a few hours later by Lady Heyburn, who had travelled up by way of Stirling and Crieff Junction, while that same night eight men forming the shooting-party arrived by the day express from the south.

The gathering was a merry one.  The guests were the same who came up there every year, some of them friends of Sir Henry in the days of his brilliant career, others friends of his wife.  The shooting at Glencardine was always excellent; and Stewart, wise and serious, had prophesied first-class sport.

Walter Murie was in London.  While Gabrielle had been at Durham he had travelled up there, spent the night at the “Three Tuns,” and met her next morning in that pretty wooded walk they call “the Banks.”  Devoted to her as he was, he could not bear any long separation; while she, on her part, was gratified by this attention.  Not without some difficulty did she succeed in getting away from her friends to meet him, for a provincial town is not like London, and any stranger is always in the public eye.  But they spent a delightful couple of hours together, strolling along the footpath through the meadows in the direction of Finchale Priory.  There were no eavesdroppers; and he, with his arm linked in hers, repeated the story of his all-conquering love.

She listened in silence, then raising her fine clear eyes to his, said, “I know, Walter—­I know that you love me.  And I love you also.”

“Ah,” he sighed, “if you would only be frank with me, dearest—­if you would only be as frank with me as I am with you!”