After staring hard at Arnold while he was speaking, Geoffrey burst out laughing when he had done.  A disinterested anxiety for the welfare of another person was one of those refinements of feeling which a muscular education had not fitted him to understand.

“I say, old boy,” he burst out, “you seem to take an extraordinary interest in Miss Silvester!  You haven’t fallen in love with her yourself—­have you?”

“Come! come!” said Arnold, seriously.  “Neither she nor I deserve to be sneered at, in that way.  I have made a sacrifice to your interests, Geoffrey—­and so has she.”

Geoffrey’s face became serious again.  His secret was in Arnold’s hands; and his estimate of Arnold’s character was founded, unconsciously, on his experience of himself.  “All right,” he said, by way of timely apology and concession.  “I was only joking.”

“As much joking as you please, when you have married her,” replied Arnold.  “It seems serious enough, to my mind, till then.”  He stopped—­considered—­and laid his hand very earnestly on Geoffrey’s arm.  “Mind!” he resumed.  “You are not to breathe a word to any living soul, of my having been near the inn!”

“I’ve promised to hold my tongue, once already.  What do you want more?”

“I am anxious, Geoffrey.  I was at Craig Fernie, remember, when Blanche came there!  She has been telling me all that happened, poor darling, in the firm persuasion that I was miles off at the time.  I swear I couldn’t look her in the face!  What would she think of me, if she knew the truth?  Pray be careful! pray be careful!”

Geoffrey’s patience began to fail him.

“We had all this out,” he said, “on the way here from the station.  What’s the good of going over the ground again?”

“You’re quite right,” said Arnold, good-humoredly.  “The fact is—­I’m out of sorts, this morning.  My mind misgives me—­I don’t know why.”

“Mind?” repeated Geoffrey, in high contempt.  “It’s flesh—­that’s what’s the matter with you. You’re nigh on a stone over your right weight.  Mind he hanged!  A man in healthy training don’t know that he has got a mind.  Take a turn with the dumb-bells, and a run up hill with a great-coat on.  Sweat it off, Arnold!  Sweat it off!”

With that excellent advice, he turned to leave the room for the third time.  Fate appeared to have determined to keep him imprisoned in the library, that morning.  On this occasion, it was a servant who got in the way—­a servant, with a letter and a message.  “The man waits for answer.”

Geoffrey looked at the letter.  It was in his brother’s handwriting.  He had left Julius at the junction about three hours since.  What could Julius possibly have to say to him now?