“No, Sir Patrick.”

Pending the return of Arnold and Blanche, Sir Patrick looked at Mr. Crum’s letter for the second time.

He was not quite satisfied that the pecuniary motive was really the motive at the bottom of Anne’s journey south.  Remembering that Geoffrey’s trainers had removed him to the neighborhood of London, he was inclined to doubt whether some serious quarrel had not taken place between Anne and Mrs. Glenarm—­and whether some direct appeal to Geoffrey himself might not be in contemplation as the result.  In that event, Sir Patrick’s advice and assistance would be placed, without scruple, at Miss Silvester’s disposal.  By asserting her claim, in opposition to the claim of Mrs. Glenarm, she was also asserting herself to be an unmarried woman, and was thus serving Blanche’s interests as well as her own.  “I owe it to Blanche to help her,” thought Sir Patrick.  “And I owe it to myself to bring Geoffrey Delamayn to a day of reckoning if I can.”

The barking of the dogs in the yard announced the return of the carriage.  Sir Patrick went out to meet Arnold and Blanche at the gate, and tell them the news.

Punctual to the time at which he was expected, the discreet Duncan reappeared with a note from the musical agent.

Miss Silvester had not yet reached London; but she was expected to arrive not later than Tuesday in the ensuing week.  The agent had already been favored with her instructions to pay the strictest attention to any commands received from Sir Patrick Lundie.  He would take care that Sir Patrick’s message should be given to Miss Silvester as soon as she arrived.

At last, then, there was news to be relied on!  At last there was a prospect of seeing her!  Blanche was radiant with happiness, Arnold was in high spirits for the first time since his return from Baden.

Sir Patrick tried hard to catch the infection of gayety from his young friends; but, to his own surprise, not less than to theirs, the effort proved fruitless.  With the tide of events turning decidedly in his favor—­relieved of the necessity of taking a doubtful journey to Scotland; assured of obtaining his interview with Anne in a few days’ time—­he was out of spirits all through the evening.

“Still down on our luck!” exclaimed Arnold, as he and his host finished their last game of billiards, and parted for the night.  “Surely, we couldn’t wish for a more promising prospect than our prospect next week?”

Sir Patrick laid his hand on Arnold’s shoulder.

“Let us look indulgently together,” he said, in his whimsically grave way, “at the humiliating spectacle of an old man’s folly.  I feel, at this moment, Arnold, as if I would give every thing that I possess in the world to have passed over next week, and to be landed safely in the time beyond it.”

“But why?”

“There is the folly!  I can’t tell why.  With every reason to be in better spirits than usual, I am unaccountably, irrationally, invincibly depressed.  What are we to conclude from that?  Am I the object of a supernatural warning of misfortune to come?  Or am I the object of a temporary derangement of the functions of the liver?  There is the question.  Who is to decide it?  How contemptible is humanity, Arnold, rightly understood!  Give me my candle, and let’s hope it’s the liver.”