"One never knows whom one offends when living in Italy," I laughed, as lightly as I could, endeavouring to allay his suspicion. "He may have fallen beneath the assassin's knife by giving quite a small and possibly innocent offence to somebody. Italian methods are not English, you know."
"By Jove, sir, and I'm jolly glad they're not!" he said. "I shouldn't think a police officer's life is a very safe one among all those secret murder societies I've read about."
"Ah! what you read about them is often very much exaggerated," I assured him. "It is the vendetta which is such a stain upon the character of the modern Italian; and depend upon it this affair in Rannoch Wood is the outcome of some revenge or other — probably over a love affair."
"But you will assist us, sir?" he urged. "You know the Italian language, which will be of great advantage; besides, the victim was your servant."
"Be discreet," I said. "And in return I will do my very utmost to assist you in hunting down the assassin."
And thus we made our compact, and half-an-hour after I was driving in the dog-cart through the pouring rain up the hill out of grey old Dumfries to my uncle's house.
As I descended from the cart and gave it over to a groom, old Davis, the butler, came forward, saying in a low voice —
"There's Miss Leithcourt waiting to see you, Mr. Gordon. She's in the morning-room, and been
