We went on, striking straight for the open moorland which we knew bounded the woods in that direction, and before the light had entirely faded we found ourselves out amongst the heather with the distant hills looming dark against the horizon.  But we saw no sign of the men who had so secretly concealed the body of their victim.

“I will take you back to the castle, Miss Leithcourt,” I said.  “And then I’ll drive on into Dumfries and see the police.  These men must be arrested.”

“Yes, do,” she urged.  “I will get into the house by the stable-yard, for they must not see me in this terrible plight.”

It was rough walking, therefore at my invitation she took my arm, and as she did so I felt that she was shivering.

“You are very wet,” I remarked.  “I hope you won’t take cold.”

“Oh!  I’m used to getting wet.  I drive and cycle a lot, you know, and very often get drenched,” was her reply.  Then after a pause she said:  “We must discover who that woman was.  She seems, from her complexion and her hair, to be a foreigner, like the man.”

“Yes, I think so,” was my reply.  “I will tell the police all that we have found out, and they will go there presently and recover the body.”

“If they can only find those two men, then we should know the truth,” she declared.  “One of them—­the one in brown—­was unusually broad-shouldered, and seemed to walk with a slight stoop.”

“You expected to discover another woman, did you not, Miss Leithcourt?” I asked presently, as we walked across the moor.

“Yes,” she answered.  “I expected to find an entirely different person.”

“And if you had found her it would have proved the guilt of someone with whom you are acquainted?”

She nodded in the affirmative.

“Then what we have found this evening does not convey to you the identity of the assassins?”

“No, unfortunately it does not.  We must for the present leave the matter in the hands of the police.”

“But if the identity of the dead woman is established?” I asked.

“It might furnish me with a clue,” she exclaimed quickly.  “Yes, try and discover who she is.”

“Who was the woman you expected to find?”

“A friend—­a very dear friend.”

“Will you not tell me her name?” I inquired.

“No, it would be unfair to her,” she responded decisively, an answer which to me was particularly tantalizing.

On we plodded in silence, our thoughts too full for words.  Was it not strange that the mysterious yachtsman should be her lover, and stranger still that on recognizing me he should have escaped, not only from Scotland, but away to the Continent?

Was not that, in itself, evidence of guilt and fear?

It was quite dark when I took leave of my bright little companion, who, tired out and yet uncomplaining, pressed my hand and wished me good fortune in my investigations.