Now, when the letter was brought to Miss White, she was standing in one of the wings, laughing and chatting with the stage manager.  The laugh went from her face.  She grew quite pale.

“Oh, Mr. Cartwright,” said she, “do you think I could go down to Erith and be back before six in the evening?”

“Oh yes, why not?” said he carelessly.

But she scarcely heard him.  She was still staring at that sheet of paper, with its piteous cry of the sick man.  Only to see her once more—­to shake hands in token of forgiveness—­to say good-by for the last time:  what woman with the heart of a woman could resist this despairing prayer?

“Where is the man who brought this letter?” said she.

“In front, miss,” said the young lad, “by the box-office.”

Very quickly she made her way along the gloomy and empty corridors, and there in the twilit hall she found the gray-haired old sailor, with his cap held humbly in his hands.  “Oh, Hamish,” said she, “is Sir Keith so very ill?”

“Is it ill, mem?” said Hamish; and quick tears sprang to the old man’s eyes.  “He iss more ill than you can think of, mem; it iss another man that he iss now.  Ay, ay, who would know him to be Sir Keith Macleod?”

“He wants me to go and see him; and I suppose I have no time to go home first—­”

“Here is the list of the trains, mem,” said Hamish, eagerly, producing a certain card.  “And it iss me and Colin Laing, that’s my cousin, mem; and we hef a cab outside; and will you go to the station?  Oh, you will not know Sir Keith, mem; there iss no one at all would know my master now.”

“Come along, then, Hamish,” said she, quickly.  “Oh, but he cannot be so ill as that.  And the long sea-voyage will pull him round, don’t you think?”

“Ay, ay, mem,” said Hamish; but he was paying little heed.  He called up the cab, and Miss White stepped inside, and he and Colin Laing got on the box.

“Tell him to go quickly,” she said to Hamish, “for I must have something instead of luncheon if we have a minute at the station.”

And Miss White, as the cab rolled away, felt pleased with herself.  It was a brave act.

“It is the least I can do for the sake of my bonny Glenogie,” she was saying to herself, quite cheerfully.  “And if Mr. Lemuel were to hear of it?  Well, he must know that I mean to be mistress of my own conduct.  And so the poor Glenogie is really ill.  I can do no harm in parting good friends with him.  Some men would have made a fuss.”

At the station they had ten minutes to wait; and Miss White was able to get the slight refreshment she desired.  And although Hamish would fain have kept out of her way—­for it was not becoming in a rude sailor to be seen speaking to so fine a lady—­she would not allow that.

“And where are you going, Hamish, when you leave the Thames?” she asked, smoothing the fingers of the glove she had just put on again.