He returned to the smoking-room, and composed himself to wait for events as patiently as he might.  In this passive position—­with his thoughts still running on Lady Lundie—­his memory reverted to a brief conversation between Sir Patrick and himself, occasioned, on the previous day, by her ladyship’s announcement of her proposed visit to Ham Farm.  Sir Patrick had at once expressed his conviction that his sister-in-law’s journey south had some acknowledged purpose at the bottom of it.

“I am not at all sure, Arnold” (he had said), “that I have done wisely in leaving her letter unanswered.  And I am strongly disposed to think that the safest course will be to take her into the secret when she comes to-morrow.  We can’t help the position in which we are placed.  It was impossible (without admitting your wife to our confidence) to prevent Blanche from writing that unlucky letter to her—­and, even if we had prevented it, she must have heard in other ways of your return to England.  I don’t doubt my own discretion, so far; and I don’t doubt the convenience of keeping her in the dark, as a means of keeping her from meddling in this business of yours, until I have had time to set it right.  But she may, by some unlucky accident, discover the truth for herself—­and, in that case, I strongly distrust the influence which she might attempt to exercise on Blanche’s mind.”

Those were the words—­and what had happened on the day after they had been spoken?  Lady Lundie had discovered the truth; and she was, at that moment, alone somewhere with Blanche.  Arnold took up his hat once more, and set forth on the search for the ladies in another direction.

The second expedition was as fruitless as the first.  Nothing was to be seen, and nothing was to be heard, of Lady Lundie and Blanche.

Arnold’s watch told him that it was not far from the time when Sir Patrick might be expected to return.  In all probability, while he had been looking for them, the ladies had gone back by some other way to the house.  He entered the rooms on the ground-floor, one after another.  They were all empty.  He went up stairs, and knocked at the door of Blanche’s room.  There was no answer.  He opened the door and looked in.  The room was empty, like the rooms down stairs.  But, close to the entrance, there was a trifling circumstance to attract notice, in the shape of a note lying on the carpet.  He picked it up, and saw that it was addressed to him in the handwriting of his wife.

He opened it.  The note began, without the usual form of address, in these words: 

“I know the abominable secret that you and my uncle have hidden from me.  I know your infamy, and her infamy, and the position in which, thanks to you and to her, I now stand.  Reproaches would be wasted words, addressed to such a man as you are.  I write these lines to tell you that I have placed myself under my step-mother’s protection in London.  It is useless to attempt to follow me.  Others will find out whether the ceremony of marriage which you went through with me is binding on you or not.  For myself, I know enough already.  I have gone, never to come back, and never to let you see me again.—­Blanche.”