Léonie has arrived from London. She has been instructed, she declares, to inform Gloria de Lara that the duke’s yacht Eilean will proceed to sea and cruise about in the neighbourhood of Muck Island, so as to avoid the steamer track. The duke himself will make Glenuig Bay in a fishing smack, embarking every one thereon the day after his arrival. This arrival is timed for to-day, and Evie Ravensdale has sent a private message by Léonie asking Gloria to meet the smack at its entrance to the bay. At least so says Léonie, and Gloria believes her. She has sent the former to the top of a high crag to watch for the advent of the smack, with instructions to light a warning fire on sighting it. We have seen the pale blue line arise, and now Gloria, with quick, rapid strokes, is pulling for the bay’s entrance. Her heart is happy, for is not Evie Ravensdale at hand? She never dreams of treachery.
The boat flies through the water, which parts with hissing sound on either side of the bow’s keel. Now the splash and upheaving of the craft tells the rower that she has left the bay and entered the open sea. She casts a glance ahead, and sees the smack bearing down towards her, and then she sees the sail lowered and the vessel hove to. Once more she plies her oars, for she has caught sight of a tall figure waving to her, and making signs to bring the boat alongside the smack.
“Ship oars!” she hears a voice exclaiming as she nears it, and she obeys with alacrity.
In another moment a sailor has seized the painter, and two others have sprung into the boat. She looks up expecting to see the face of Evie Ravensdale. One glance, and she knows that she is betrayed.
“Up with the sails! Starboard the helm! Put the boat about, and fetch yon lad off the rocks,” is the quick command she hears given as the sailors heave her aloft on to the deck, and two other men push her into the cabin below. Then the hatch is battened down. There is a coarse laugh. Once more has Léonie won.
CHAPTER II.
“There is the smoke, Estcourt; Ravensdale must be in sight,” exclaims Flora Desmond, as she leans on her empty rifle and scans the peaceful scene far away below.
“So soon?” inquires the young man looking up. “We must have strangely miscalculated the time.”
“Well, there’s the smoke right enough, Estcourt; and Léonie is far too smart to make a mistake. However, no need to hurry; it is such a glorious evening, and the last for me on these dear old hills, perhaps for ever.”