“Left the inn?  With your husband?”

She answered the first question—­not the second.

“I can’t go back,” she said.  “The inn is no place for me.  A curse seems to follow me, Blanche, wherever I go.  I am the cause of quarreling and wretchedness, without meaning it, God knows.  The old man who is head-waiter at the inn has been kind to me, my dear, in his way, and he and the landlady had hard words together about it.  A quarrel, a shocking, violent quarrel.  He has lost his place in consequence.  The woman, his mistress, lays all the blame of it to my door.  She is a hard woman; and she has been harder than ever since Bishopriggs went away.  I have missed a letter at the inn—­I must have thrown it aside, I suppose, and forgotten it.  I only know that I remembered about it, and couldn’t find it last night.  I told the landlady, and she fastened a quarrel on me almost before the words were out of my mouth.  Asked me if I charged her with stealing my letter.  Said things to me—­I can’t repeat them.  I am not very well, and not able to deal with people of that sort.  I thought it best to leave Craig Fernie this morning.  I hope and pray I shall never see Craig Fernie again.”

She told her little story with a total absence of emotion of any sort, and laid her head back wearily on the chair when it was done.

Blanche’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of her.

“I won’t tease you with questions, Anne,” she said, gently.  “Come up stairs and rest in my room.  You’re not fit to travel, love.  I’ll take care that nobody comes near us.”

The stable-clock at Windygates struck the quarter to two.  Anne raised herself in the chair with a start.

“What time was that?” she asked.

Blanche told her.

“I can’t stay,” she said.  “I have come here to find something out if I can.  You won’t ask me questions?  Don’t, Blanche, don’t! for the sake of old times.”

Blanche turned aside, heart-sick.  “I will do nothing, dear, to annoy you,” she said, and took Anne’s hand, and hid the tears that were beginning to fall over her cheeks.

“I want to know something, Blanche.  Will you tell me?”

“Yes.  What is it?”

“Who are the gentlemen staying in the house?”

Blanche looked round at her again, in sudden astonishment and alarm.  A vague fear seized her that Anne’s mind had given way under the heavy weight of trouble laid on it.  Anne persisted in pressing her strange request.

“Run over their names, Blanche.  I have a reason for wishing to know who the gentlemen are who are staying in the house.”

Blanche repeated the names of Lady Lundie’s guests, leaving to the last the guests who had arrived last.

“Two more came back this morning,” she went on.  “Arnold Brinkworth and that hateful friend of his, Mr. Delamayn.”