The talk, interrupted for the moment (topics, Politics and Sport—­and then, when a change was wanted, Sport and Politics), was resumed again all round the table.  Under cover of the conversation, and in the intervals of receiving the attentions of the gentlemen, Blanche whispered to Sir Patrick, “Don’t start, uncle.  Anne is in the library.”  (Polite Mr. Smith offered some ham.  Gratefully declined.) “Pray, pray, pray go to her; she is waiting to see you—­she is in dreadful trouble.”  (Gallant Mr. Jones proposed fruit tart and cream.  Accepted with thanks.) “Take her to the summer-house:  I’ll follow you when I get the chance.  And manage it at once, uncle, if you love me, or you will be too late.”

Before Sir Patrick could whisper back a word in reply, Lady Lundie, cutting a cake of the richest Scottish composition, at the other end of the table, publicly proclaimed it to be her “own cake,” and, as such, offered her brother-in-law a slice.  The slice exhibited an eruption of plums and sweetmeats, overlaid by a perspiration of butter.  It has been said that Sir Patrick had reached the age of seventy—­it is, therefore, needless to add that he politely declined to commit an unprovoked outrage on his own stomach.

“MY cake!” persisted Lady Lundie, elevating the horrible composition on a fork.  “Won’t that tempt you?”

Sir Patrick saw his way to slipping out of the room under cover of a compliment to his sister-in-law.  He summoned his courtly smile, and laid his hand on his heart.

“A fallible mortal,” he said, “is met by a temptation which he can not possibly resist.  If he is a wise mortal, also, what does he do?”

“He eats some of My cake,” said the prosaic Lady Lundie.

“No!” said Sir Patrick, with a look of unutterable devotion directed at his sister-in-law.

“He flies temptation, dear lady—­as I do now.”  He bowed, and escaped, unsuspected, from the room.

Lady Lundie cast down her eyes, with an expression of virtuous indulgence for human frailty, and divided Sir Patrick’s compliment modestly between herself and her cake.

Well aware that his own departure from the table would be followed in a few minutes by the rising of the lady of the house, Sir Patrick hurried to the library as fast as his lame foot would let him.  Now that he was alone, his manner became anxious, and his face looked grave.  He entered the room.

Not a sign of Anne Silvester was to be seen any where.  The library was a perfect solitude.

“Gone!” said Sir Patrick.  “This looks bad.”

After a moment’s reflection he went back into the hall to get his hat.  It was possible that she might have been afraid of discovery if she staid in the library, and that she might have gone on to the summer-house by herself.