If Geoffrey had told the truth, he must have stated his position much as follows: 

He had necessarily decided on deserting Anne when he had decided on joining his brother on the journey back.  But he had advanced no farther than this.  How he was to abandon the woman who had trusted him, without seeing his own dastardly conduct dragged into the light of day, was more than he yet knew.  A vague idea of at once pacifying and deluding Anne, by a marriage which should be no marriage at all, had crossed his mind on the journey.  He had asked himself whether a trap of that sort might not be easily set in a country notorious for the looseness of its marriage laws—­if a man only knew how?  And he had thought it likely that his well-informed brother, who lived in Scotland, might be tricked into innocently telling him what he wanted to know.  He had turned the conversation to the subject of Scotch marriages in general by way of trying the experiment.  Julius had not studied the question; Julius knew nothing about it; and there the experiment had come to an end.  As the necessary result of the check thus encountered, he was now in Scotland with absolutely nothing to trust to as a means of effecting his release but the chapter of accidents, aided by his own resolution to marry Mrs. Glenarm.  Such was his position, and such should have been the substance of his reply when he was confronted by Arnold’s question, and plainly asked what he meant to do.

“The right thing,” he answered, unblushingly.  “And no mistake about it.”

“I’m glad to hear you see your way so plainly,” returned Arnold.  “In your place, I should have been all abroad.  I was wondering, only the other day, whether you would end, as I should have ended, in consulting Sir Patrick.”

Geoffrey eyed him sharply.

“Consult Sir Patrick?” he repeated.  “Why would you have done that?”

“I shouldn’t have known how to set about marrying her,” replied Arnold.  “And—­being in Scotland—­I should have applied to Sir Patrick (without mentioning names, of course), because he would be sure to know all about it.”

“Suppose I don’t see my way quite so plainly as you think,” said Geoffrey.  “Would you advise me—­”

“To consult Sir Patrick?  Certainly!  He has passed his life in the practice of the Scotch law.  Didn’t you know that?”

“No.”

“Then take my advice—­and consult him.  You needn’t mention names.  You can say it’s the case of a friend.”

The idea was a new one and a good one.  Geoffrey looked longingly toward the door.  Eager to make Sir Patrick his innocent accomplice on the spot, he made a second attempt to leave the library; and made it for the second time in vain.  Arnold had more unwelcome inquiries to make, and more advice to give unasked.

“How have you arranged about meeting Miss Silvester?” he went on.  “You can’t go to the hotel in the character of her husband.  I have prevented that.  Where else are you to meet her?  She is all alone; she must be weary of waiting, poor thing.  Can you manage matters so as to see her to-day?”