"I had a queer adventure this afternoon," he said, "at the hut on the cliffs near the head of the loch."
The old factor nodded. "That was Lord St. Just's workshop, Mr. Carthew," he mentioned.
"Well, I went up there to see how the timber had stood the storm, as you told me. And, just before turning into the woods, I took a notion to see what was over the edge—it seemed to me that a good stout railing was badly wanted there."
Herries nodded again. "That's so," he assented, lowering his voice. "It's a very dangerous spot. That was where Lord St. Just lost his life. But now—no one ever goes near the hut."
Carthew glanced at Captain Dove. But the old man's eyes were quite unreadable behind his smoked glasses. He was listening indifferently.
"I can't imagine," Carthew went on, "what it was that suddenly made me look round, but I did. And I caught a glimpse of a most uncanny figure watching me from among the undergrowth about the trees behind. It was all in white, with a hood pulled over its head."
A lull in the conversation elsewhere left only his voice audible. The attention of the others had been attracted, and even the soft-footed servants seemed to be hanging upon his words. Sallie looked surprised, puzzled, even a little afraid. Captain Dove's features spoke a gnawing anxiety now. Slyne's close-set, unfriendly eyes were fixed intently upon him.
"That gave me a cold scare," Carthew continued, almost inclined to wish that he had not mentioned the matter at all. "I'm not quite acclimatised yet to such apparitions. So I dodged behind the hut for shelter and to get a better look at it. But it made off again, almost immediately, in the direction of the castle.
"I chased after it in a minute or two—but I was too late. It had disappeared. And I've been wondering ever since, who and what it could have been," he finished, his eyes, meeting Captain Dove's, expressing only innocent inquiry.
The footman behind him dropped a plate, and the crash that produced startled every one more than it need have. An atmosphere of strained expectancy and unrest seemed to pervade the shadowy banquet-hall. Even Lord Ingoldsby, who had been regarding Carthew with sulky ill-will, could not but notice it.