Sir Patrick considerately advanced, to spare her the shock of making the inevitable discovery.  “Blanche,” he said.  “Try to prepare yourself, my dear, for a disappointment.  I am alone.”

“You don’t mean that you have let her go?”

“My poor child!  I have never seen her at all.”

Blanche pushed by him, and ran into the summer-house.  Sir Patrick followed her.  She came out again to meet him, with a look of blank despair.  “Oh, uncle!  I did so truly pity her!  And see how little pity she has for me!”

Sir Patrick put his arm round his niece, and softly patted the fair young head that dropped on his shoulder.

“Don’t let us judge her harshly, my dear:  we don’t know what serious necessity may not plead her excuse.  It is plain that she can trust nobody—­and that she only consented to see me to get you out of the room and spare you the pain of parting.  Compose yourself, Blanche.  I don’t despair of discovering where she has gone, if you will help me.”

Blanche lifted her head, and dried her tears bravely.

“My father himself wasn’t kinder to me than you are,” she said.  “Only tell me, uncle, what I can do!”

“I want to hear exactly what happened in the library,” said Sir Patrick.  “Forget nothing, my dear child, no matter how trifling it may be.  Trifles are precious to us, and minutes are precious to us, now.”

Blanche followed her instructions to the letter, her uncle listening with the closest attention.  When she had completed her narrative, Sir Patrick suggested leaving the summer-house.  “I have ordered your chaise,” he said; “and I can tell you what I propose doing on our way to the stable-yard.”

“Let me drive you, uncle!”

“Forgive me, my dear, for saying No to that.  Your step-mother’s suspicions are very easily excited—­and you had better not be seen with me if my inquiries take me to the Craig Fernie inn.  I promise, if you will remain here, to tell you every thing when I come back.  Join the others in any plan they have for the afternoon—­and you will prevent my absence from exciting any thing more than a passing remark.  You will do as I tell you?  That’s a good girl!  Now you shall hear how I propose to search for this poor lady, and how your little story has helped me.”

He paused, considering with himself whether he should begin by telling Blanche of his consultation with Geoffrey.  Once more, he decided that question in the negative.  Better to still defer taking her into his confidence until he had performed the errand of investigation on which he was now setting forth.

“What you have told me, Blanche, divides itself, in my mind, into two heads,” began Sir Patrick.  “There is what happened in the library before your own eyes; and there is what Miss Silvester told you had happened at the inn.  As to the event in the library (in the first place), it is too late now to inquire whether that fainting-fit was the result, as you say, of mere exhaustion—­or whether it was the result of something that occurred while you were out of the room.”