Mark laughed rather bitterly.
"That's just what I feel like," he said shortly. "My uncle killed; my cousin arrested; my friend accused. Miss Byrne refusing to let me behave decently to her about the money. Oh well," he pulled himself up, and spoke in a more guarded tone, "one gets used to everything in time, no doubt, but just at present, I'm afraid, I am rather depressing company. See you later."
They went their ways, Gimblet going forth into the drenching rain which was now falling down the road, through the soaking woodlands to the cottage, where the Crianan policemen still smoked their pipes undisturbed. Lady Ruth met him at the gate, running down in her waterproof when she saw him approaching.
"Where is Juliet?" she cried. "Wasn't she at Inverashiel?"
"Hasn't she come back?" asked Gimblet, answering her question by another.
"No sign of her. What can have happened? Mr. Gimblet, I am really getting dreadfully anxious. She must have gone on to the hills and lost her way in the mist."
"She is sure to get back in time," Gimblet tried to reassure her, though he himself was beginning to wonder at the girl's absence. "Perhaps," he added, "she is at Mrs. Clutsam's. I daresay that's the truth of it."
"She can't be there," Lady Ruth answered. "Mrs. Clutsam told me she was going out all day, to-day, to visit her husband's sister who is staying somewhere twenty miles from here on the Oban road, and longing, of course, to hear all about the murder at first hand. Relations are so exacting, and if they are relations-in-law they become positive Shylocks. Juliet may have gone to the lodge though, all the same, and stayed to keep the Romaninov girl company."
She seemed to be satisfied with this explanation; and Gimblet had tea with her, and then went to write his letters.
Soon after six one of the policemen went down to the high road to lie in wait for General Tenby, and about twenty minutes past the hour wheels rattled on the gravel of the short carriage-drive, and the General drove up to the door. He was a tall, soldierly-looking man of between fifty and sixty, with a red face and a keen blue eye, and a precise, jerky manner.
"Ah, Lady Ruth! Glad to see you bearing up so well under these tragic circumstances," he said, shaking hands with that lady, who came to the door to welcome him. "Poor Ashiel ought to have had shutters to his windows. Dreadful mistake, no shutters: lets in draughts and colds in the head, if nothing worse. These old houses are all the same. No safety in them from anything. Young McConachan wrote me an urgent note to come over. Don't quite see what for, but here I am. Eh? What do you say? Oh, detective from London, is it? How d'ye do? Perhaps you can tell me what the programme is?"