Then hastening to her room she threw off her dinner gown, and putting on a coat and skirt and the boots which she had worn when fishing that morning, she went out by a door which led from the great old library, with its thousands of brown-backed volumes, on to the broad terrace which overlooked the glen, now a veritable fairyland beneath the light of the moon.
Outside the silence was only broken by the ripple of the burn over its pebbles deep below, and the cry of the night-bird upon the steep rock whereon the historic old castle was built. By a path known to her she descended swiftly, and away into the park by yet another path, used almost exclusively by the servants and the postman, down to a gate which led out into the high road to Perth by one of the farms on the estate, the one known as the Bervie.
As she was about to pass through the small swing gate, she heard a voice which she recognized exclaim:
“Miss Ranscomb! I have to apologize!” And from the dark shadow a rather tall man emerged and barred her path.
“I daresay you will think this all very mysterious,” he went on, laughing lightly. “But I do hope I have not inconvenienced you. If so, pray accept my deepest apologies. Will you?”
“Not at all,” the girl replied, though somewhat taken aback by the suddenness of the encounter. The man spoke slowly and with evident refinement. His voice was the same she had heard at Nice on that memorable night of gaiety. She recognized it instantly.
As he stood before her, his countenance became revealed in the moonlight, and she saw a well-moulded, strongly-marked face, with a pair of dark, penetrating eyes, set a little too close perhaps, but denoting strong will and keen intelligence.
“Yes,” he laughed. “Look at me well, Miss Ranscomb. I am the white cavalier whom you last saw disguised by a black velvet mask. Look at me again, because perhaps you may wish to recognize me later on.”
“And you are still Mr. X—eh?” asked the girl, who had halted, and was gazing upon his rather striking face.
“Still the same,” he said, smiling. “Or you may call me Brown, Jones, or Robinson—or any of the other saints’ names if you prefer.”