Sir Patrick started under the gentle discipline of the hair-brush in Duncan’s hand.

“That’s very sensibly put,” said the old gentleman.  “Duncan! you are, what I call, a clear-minded man.  Well worth thinking of, old Truepenny!  If the worst comes to the worst, well worth thinking of!”

It was not the first time that Duncan’s steady good sense had struck light, under the form of a new thought, in his master’s mind.  But never yet had he wrought such mischief as the mischief which he had innocently done now.  He had sent Sir Patrick to bed with the fatal idea of hastening the marriage of Arnold and Blanche.

The situation of affairs at Windygates—­now that Anne had apparently obliterated all trace of herself—­was becoming serious.  The one chance on which the discovery of Arnold’s position depended, was the chance that accident might reveal the truth in the lapse of time.  In this posture of circumstances, Sir Patrick now resolved—­if nothing happened to relieve Blanche’s anxiety in the course of the week—­to advance the celebration of the marriage from the end of the autumn (as originally contemplated) to the first fortnight of the ensuing month.  As dates then stood, the change led (so far as free scope for the development of accident was concerned) to this serious result.  It abridged a lapse of three months into an interval of three weeks.

The next morning came; and Blanche marked it as a memorable morning, by committing an act of imprudence, which struck away one more of the chances of discovery that had existed, before the arrival of the Edinburgh telegram on the previous day.

She had passed a sleepless night; fevered in mind and body; thinking, hour after hour, of nothing but Anne.  At sunrise she could endure it no longer.  Her power to control herself was completely exhausted; her own impulses led her as they pleased.  She got up, determined not to let Geoffrey leave the house without risking an effort to make him reveal what he knew about Anne.  It was nothing less than downright treason to Sir Patrick to act on her own responsibility in this way.  She knew it was wrong; she was heartily ashamed of herself for doing it.  But the demon that possesses women with a recklessness all their own, at the critical moments of their lives, had got her—­and she did it.

Geoffrey had arranged overnight, to breakfast early, by himself, and to walk the ten miles to his brother’s house; sending a servant to fetch his luggage later in the day.

He had got on his hat; he was standing in the hall, searching his pocket for his second self, the pipe—­when Blanche suddenly appeared from the morning-room, and placed herself between him and the house door.

“Up early—­eh?” said Geoffrey.  “I’m off to my brother’s.”

She made no reply.  He looked at her closer.  The girl’s eyes were trying to read his face, with an utter carelessness of concealment, which forbade (even to his mind) all unworthy interpretation of her motive for stopping him on his way out.