In the case of any other client I should have acted on my instructions, however personally distasteful to me, and have given up the point about the twenty thousand pounds on the spot.  But I could not act with this business-like indifference towards Miss Fairlie.  I had an honest feeling of affection and admiration for her—­I remembered gratefully that her father had been the kindest patron and friend to me that ever man had—­I had felt towards her while I was drawing the settlement as I might have felt, if I had not been an old bachelor, towards a daughter of my own, and I was determined to spare no personal sacrifice in her service and where her interests were concerned.  Writing a second time to Mr. Fairlie was not to be thought of—­it would only be giving him a second opportunity of slipping through my fingers.  Seeing him and personally remonstrating with him might possibly be of more use.  The next day was Saturday.  I determined to take a return ticket and jolt my old bones down to Cumberland, on the chance of persuading him to adopt the just, the independent, and the honourable course.  It was a poor chance enough, no doubt, but when I had tried it my conscience would be at ease.  I should then have done all that a man in my position could do to serve the interests of my old friend’s only child.

The weather on Saturday was beautiful, a west wind and a bright sun.  Having felt latterly a return of that fulness and oppression of the head, against which my doctor warned me so seriously more than two years since, I resolved to take the opportunity of getting a little extra exercise by sending my bag on before me and walking to the terminus in Euston Square.  As I came out into Holborn a gentleman walking by rapidly stopped and spoke to me.  It was Mr. Walter Hartright.

If he had not been the first to greet me I should certainly have passed him.  He was so changed that I hardly knew him again.  His face looked pale and haggard—­his manner was hurried and uncertain—­and his dress, which I remembered as neat and gentleman-like when I saw him at Limmeridge, was so slovenly now that I should really have been ashamed of the appearance of it on one of my own clerks.

“Have you been long back from Cumberland?” he asked.  “I heard from Miss Halcombe lately.  I am aware that Sir Percival Glyde’s explanation has been considered satisfactory.  Will the marriage take place soon?  Do you happen to know Mr. Gilmore?”

He spoke so fast, and crowded his questions together so strangely and confusedly, that I could hardly follow him.  However accidentally intimate he might have been with the family at Limmeridge, I could not see that he had any right to expect information on their private affairs, and I determined to drop him, as easily as might be, on the subject of Miss Fairlie’s marriage.

“Time will show, Mr. Hartright,” I said—­“time will show.  I dare say if we look out for the marriage in the papers we shall not be far wrong.  Excuse my noticing it, but I am sorry to see you not looking so well as you were when we last met.”