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Updated: June 20, 2025
There's a whisper that the mysterious woman, Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo, was shot during the night by a discarded lover!" "Shot!" exclaimed Lady Ranscomb. "Dear me! How very dreadful. What really happened?" "I don't know. Madame Jacomet was told by her husband, who heard it in Ciro's this morning." "How terrible!" remarked Hugh, striving to remain calm. "Yes.
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!
Dorise endeavoured to be quite affable to the smooth-haired man seated before her, expressing regret that he was called away so suddenly, while he, on his part, declared that it was "awful hard luck," as he had been looking forward to a week's good sport on the river. "Do come back, George," Lady Ranscomb urged. "Get your business over and get back here for the weekend."
"I do believe in you," declared the girl. "Excellent!" he replied enthusiastically. "Then let us get to business pardon me for putting it so. But I am, after all, a business man. I am interested in a lot of different businesses, you see." "Of what character?" "No, Miss Ranscomb. That is another point upon which I regret that I cannot satisfy your pardonable curiosity.
Spring was slowly developing into summer and the woods around Blairglas, the fine estate in Perthshire which old Sir Richard Ranscomb had left to his wife, were delightful. Blairglas Castle, a grand old turreted pile, was perched on the edge of a wooded glen through which flowed a picturesque burn well known to tourists in Scotland.
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.
And then, as they strolled on into the farther room, the conversation dropped. "So they've heard about Mademoiselle, it seems!" remarked Brock to his friend as they walked back to the Palmiers together in the moonlight after having seen Lady Ranscomb and her daughter to their hotel. "Yes," growled the other. "I wish we could get hold of that Monsieur Courtin. He might tell us a bit about her."
"No, Dorise, no more need be said!" interrupted Lady Ranscomb severely. "You surely would not be so idiotic as to throw in your lot with a man who is certainly a criminal." "A criminal! Why do you denounce him, mother?" "Well, he stands self-condemned. He has been in hiding ever since that night at Monte Carlo. If he were innocent, he would surely, for your sake, come forward and clear himself.
You and Miss Ranscomb no doubt believed the tall man who went to the ball at Nice as a cavalier to be myself. He did not tell you anything to the contrary, because I only reveal my identity to persons whom I can trust, and then only in cases of extreme necessity." "Then I take it, sir, that you trust me, and that my case is one of extreme necessity?" "It is," was The Sparrow's reply.
"No, Miss Ranscomb. For certain very important reasons I do not wish to disclose it. Pardon me will you not? I ask that favour of you." "But will you not satisfy my curiosity?" "At my personal risk? No. I do not think you would wish me to do that eh?" he asked in a tone of mild reproof. Then he went on: "I'm awfully sorry I could not approach you openly.
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