As the lawyer withdrew himself from observation, Moody approached Isabel.

Thus far he had stood apart, watching her and listening to her in silence.  Not a look that had crossed her face, not a word that had fallen from her, had escaped him.  Unconsciously on her side, unconsciously on his side, she now wrought on his nature with a purifying and ennobling influence which animated it with a new life.  All that had been selfish and violent in his passion for her left him to return no more.  The immeasurable devotion which he laid at her feet, in the days that were yet to come—­the unyielding courage which cheerfully accepted the sacrifice of himself when events demanded it at a later period of his life—­struck root in him now.  Without attempting to conceal the tears that were falling fast over his cheeks—­striving vainly to express those new thoughts in him that were beyond the reach of words—­he stood before her the truest friend and servant that ever woman had.

“Oh, my dear! my heart is heavy for you.  Take me to serve you and help you.  Her Ladyship’s kindness will permit it, I am sure.”

He could say no more.  In those simple words the cry of his heart reached her.  “Forgive me, Robert,” she answered, gratefully, “if I said anything to pain you when we spoke together a little while since.  I didn’t mean it.”  She gave him her hand, and looked timidly over her shoulder at Lady Lydiard.  “Let me go!” she said, in low, broken tones, “Let me go!”

Mr. Troy heard her, and stepped forward to interfere before Lady Lydiard could speak.  The man had recovered his self-control; the lawyer took his place again on the scene.

“You must not leave us, my dear,” he said to Isabel, “until I have put a question to Mr. Moody in which you are interested.  Do you happen to have the number of the lost bank-note?” he asked, turning to the steward.

Moody produced his slip of paper with the number on it.  Mr. Troy made two copies of it before he returned the paper.  One copy he put in his pocket, the other he handed to Isabel.

“Keep it carefully,” he said.  “Neither you nor I know how soon it may be of use to you.”

Receiving the copy from him, she felt mechanically in her apron for her pocketbook.  She had used it, in playing with the dog, as an object to hide from him; but she had suffered, and was still suffering, too keenly to be capable of the effort of remembrance.  Moody, eager to help her even in the most trifling thing, guessed what had happened.  “You were playing with Tommie,” he said; “is it in the next room?”

The dog heard his name pronounced through the open door.  The next moment he trotted into the drawing-room with Isabel’s pocketbook in his mouth.  He was a strong, well-grown Scotch terrier of the largest size, with bright, intelligent eyes, and a coat of thick curling white hair, diversified by two light brown patches on his back.  As he reached the middle of the room, and looked from one to another of the persons present, the fine sympathy of his race told him that there was trouble among his human friends.  His tail dropped; he whined softly as he approached Isabel, and laid her pocketbook at her feet.