Poisoned Lips

The grim old place, with its towers, its dimly-lit long stone corridors, cyclopean ivy-clad walls, narrow windows, and great panelled chambers, breathed an atmosphere of the long ago. So extensive was it that only one wing--that which looked far down the glen to the blue distant mountains--had been modernised; yet that, in itself, was sufficiently spacious for the entertainment of large house-parties.

One morning, early in June, Dorise, in a rough tweed suit and a pearl-grey suede tam-o'shanter, carrying a mackintosh across her shoulder, and accompanied by a tall, dark-haired, clean-shaven man of thirty-two, with rather thick lips and bushy eyebrows, walked down through the woods to the river. The man, who was in fishing clothes, sauntered at her side, smoking a cigarette; while behind them came old Sandy Murray, the grizzled, fair-bearded head keeper, carrying the salmon rods, the gaff, creel, and luncheon basket.

"The spate is excellent for us," exclaimed George Sherrard. "We ought to kill a salmon to-day, Dorise."

"I sincerely hope so," replied the girl; "but somehow I never have any luck in these days."

"No, you really don't! But Marjorie killed a twelve-pounder last week, your mother tells me."

"Yes. She went out with Murray every day for a whole fortnight, and then on the day before she went back to town she landed a splendid fish."

On arrival at the bank of the broad shallow Tay, Murray stepped forward, and in his pleasant Perthshire accent suggested that a trial might be made near the Ardcraig, a short walk to the left.