"Why, surely, Miss Stanleigh," I burst forth, "there can't be any reasonable doubt. Leavitt's mind may be a little flighty--he may have embroidered his story with a few gratuitous details; but Farquharson's books and things--the material evidence of his having lived there--" "And having died there?" "Surely Leavitt wouldn't have fabricated that! If you had talked with him--" "I should not care to talk with Mr. Leavitt," Miss Stanleigh cut me short. "I want only to go and see--if he _is_ Mr. Leavitt." "If he _is_ Mr. Leavitt!" For a moment I was mystified, and then in a sudden flash I understood. "But that's pre-posterous--impossible!" I tried to conceive of Leavitt in so monstrous a rôle, tried to imagine the missing Farquharson still in the flesh and beguiling Major Stanleigh and myself with so outlandish a story, devising all that ingenious detail to trick us into a belief in his own death. It would indeed have argued a warped mind, guided by some unfathomable purpose. "I devoutly hope you are right," Miss Stanleigh was saying, with deliberation. "But it is not preposterous, and it is not impossible--if you had known Mr. Farquharson as I have." It was a discreet confession. She wished me to understand--without the necessity of words. My surmise was that she had met and married Farquharson, whoever he was, under the spell of some momentary infatuation, and that he had proved himself to be an unspeakable brute whom she had speedily abandoned. "I am determined to go to Muloa, Mr. Barnaby," she announced, with decision. "I want you to make the arrangements, and with as much secrecy as possible. I shall ask my aunt to go with me." I assured Miss Stanleigh that the _Sylph_ was at her service.