The lightning quickened, and lit the sitting-room horribly with its lurid glare; the thunder rolled nearer and nearer over the black gulf of the moor.  Arnold had just raised his hand to ring for the fourth time, when the inevitable knock was heard at the door.  It was useless to say “come in.”  The immutable laws of Bishopriggs had decided that a second knock was necessary.  Storm or no storm, the second knock came—­and then, and not till then, the sage appeared, with the dish of untasted “collops” in his hand.

“Candles!” said Arnold.

Mr. Bishopriggs set the “collops” (in the language of England, minced meat) upon the table, lit the candles on the mantle-piece, faced about with the fire of recent toddy flaming in his nose, and waited for further orders, before he went back to his second glass.  Anne declined to return to the dinner.  Arnold ordered Mr. Bishopriggs to close the shutters, and sat down to dine by himself.

“It looks greasy, and smells greasy,” he said to Anne, turning over the collops with a spoon.  “I won’t be ten minutes dining.  Will you have some tea?”

Anne declined again.

Arnold tried her once more.  “What shall we do to get through the evening?”

“Do what you like,” she answered, resignedly.

Arnold’s mind was suddenly illuminated by an idea.

“I have got it!” he exclaimed.  “We’ll kill the time as our cabin-passengers used to kill it at sea.”  He looked over his shoulder at Mr. Bishopriggs.  “Waiter! bring a pack of cards.”

“What’s that ye’re wantin’?” asked Mr. Bishopriggs, doubting the evidence of his own senses.

“A pack of cards,” repeated Arnold.

“Cairds?” echoed Mr. Bishopriggs.  “A pack o’ cairds?  The deevil’s allegories in the deevil’s own colors—­red and black!  I wunna execute yer order.  For yer ain saul’s sake, I wunna do it.  Ha’ ye lived to your time o’ life, and are ye no’ awakened yet to the awfu’ seenfulness o’ gamblin’ wi’ the cairds?”

“Just as you please,” returned Arnold.  “You will find me awakened—­when I go away—­to the awful folly of feeing a waiter.”

“Does that mean that ye’re bent on the cairds?” asked Mr. Bishopriggs, suddenly betraying signs of worldly anxiety in his look and manner.

“Yes—­that means I am bent on the cards.”

“I tak’ up my testimony against ’em—­but I’m no’ telling ye that I canna lay my hand on ’em if I like.  What do they say in my country?  ’Him that will to Coupar, maun to Coupar.’  And what do they say in your country?  ‘Needs must when the deevil drives.’” With that excellent reason for turning his back on his own principles, Mr. Bishopriggs shuffled out of the room to fetch the cards.

The dresser-drawer in the pantry contained a choice selection of miscellaneous objects—­a pack of cards being among them.  In searching for the cards, the wary hand of the head-waiter came in contact with a morsel of crumpled-up paper.  He drew it out, and recognized the letter which he had picked up in the sitting-room some hours since.