“And you understand about Scotch marriages—­eh?”

Sir Patrick’s manner suddenly altered.

“Is that the subject you wish to consult me on?” he asked.

“It’s not me.  It’s my friend.”

“Your friend, then?”

“Yes.  It’s a scrape with a woman.  Here in Scotland.  My friend don’t know whether he’s married to her or not.”

“I am at your service, Mr. Delamayn.”

To Geoffrey’s relief—­by no means unmixed with surprise—­Sir Patrick not only showed no further reluctance to be consulted by him, but actually advanced to meet his wishes, by leading the way to the recess that was nearest to them.  The quick brain of the old lawyer had put Geoffrey’s application to him for assistance, and Blanche’s application to him for assistance, together; and had built its own theory on the basis thus obtained.  “Do I see a connection between the present position of Blanche’s governess, and the present position of Mr. Delamayn’s ‘friend?’” thought Sir Patrick.  “Stranger extremes than that have met me in my experience.  Something may come out of this.”

The two strangely-assorted companions seated themselves, one on each side of a little table in the recess.  Arnold and the other guests had idled out again on to the lawn.  The surgeon with his prints, and the ladies with their invitations, were safely absorbed in a distant part of the library.  The conference between the two men, so trifling in appearance, so terrible in its destined influence, not over Anne’s future only, but over the future of Arnold and Blanche, was, to all practical purposes, a conference with closed doors.

“Now,” said Sir Patrick, “what is the question?”

“The question,” said Geoffrey, “is whether my friend is married to her or not?”

“Did he mean to marry her?”

“No.”

“He being a single man, and she being a single woman, at the time?  And both in Scotland?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.  Now tell me the circumstances.”

Geoffrey hesitated.  The art of stating circumstances implies the cultivation of a very rare gift—­the gift of arranging ideas.  No one was better acquainted with this truth than Sir Patrick.  He was purposely puzzling Geoffrey at starting, under the firm conviction that his client had something to conceal from him.  The one process that could be depended on for extracting the truth, under those circumstances, was the process of interrogation.  If Geoffrey was submitted to it, at the outset, his cunning might take the alarm.  Sir Patrick’s object was to make the man himself invite interrogation.  Geoffrey invited it forthwith, by attempting to state the circumstances, and by involving them in the usual confusion.  Sir Patrick waited until he had thoroughly lost the thread of his narrative—­and then played for the winning trick.

“Would it be easier to you if I asked a few questions?” he inquired, innocently.