The gates were near at hand; in silence they breasted the steep incline of the drive, which wound and zigzagged up between high banks covered with rhododendron and bracken, and grown over with trees. After a quarter of a mile these gave place to an abrupt, grass covered slope, whose top had been smoothed and levelled by the hand of man, and from which on the far side rose the castle of Inverashiel, its stout and ancient framework disguised and masked by the modern addition to the building which faced the approach; a mass of gabled and turreted stonework in the worst style of nineteenth century architecture which in Scotland often took on a shape and semblance even more fantastically repulsive than it assumed in the south. The great tower that formed the principal remaining portion of the old building could just be discerned over the top of the flaring facade, but the nature of the site was such that most of the ancient fortress was invisible from that part of the grounds. Juliet stopped at the turn of the road. "I will leave you here," she said, "you will not want me, I suppose? After you have finished, will you come to Lady Ruth Worsfold's house, and tell me what you think? It is just past the station turning; you will easily find your way, though the house is hidden by the trees. Your luggage will be there already, as Lady Ruth is going to put you up." Mr. Mark McConachan, or rather Lord Ashiel, as he had now become, was in the act of ending a solitary meal, when Gimblet was announced. He went to meet the detective, forcing to his trouble-lined face a smile of welcome that lit up the large melancholy eyes with an expression few people could resist. "I thought it was another of those newspaper fellows, but, thank goodness, I believe they're all gone now," he said. "I am exceedingly glad to see you, Mr. Gimblet. I should myself have asked you to come to our aid, but I found that Miss Byrne had been before me. I suppose you have seen her?" "Yes," said Gimblet. "She met me at the station. I'm afraid I'm rather late on the scene. I hear that the Glasgow police have come and gone, taking with them the author of the crime." "It is a dreadful business altogether," returned young Ashiel. "I don't know which part of it is the worst. There's my uncle dead, shot down like a rat by some cold-blooded scoundrel; and now my cousin David, poor chap, in jail, and under charge of murder. It seems impossible to believe it of him, and yet, what is one to believe? One can only suppose that he must have been off his head if he did it. But have you had lunch, Mr. Gimblet? Sit down and have something to eat first of all; you can ask me any questions you wish while you are eating." And he insisted on Gimblet's doing as he suggested.