“Quite possible.  I am now on my way to Craig Fernie, to make inquiries about her.  I don’t know how long I may be detained, or what it may lead to.  If you see Blanche before I do tell her I have instructed the station-master to let me know (if Miss Silvester does take the railway) what place she books for.  Thanks to that arrangement, we sha’n’t have to wait for news till Duncan can telegraph that he has seen her to her journey’s end.  In the mean time, you understand what you are wanted to do here?”

“Blanche has explained every thing to me.”

“Stick to your post, and make good use of your eyes.  You were accustomed to that, you know, when you were at sea.  It’s no great hardship to pass a few hours in this delicious summer air.  I see you have contracted the vile modern habit of smoking—­that will be occupation enough to amuse you, no doubt!  Keep the roads in view; and, if she does come your way, don’t attempt to stop her—­you can’t do that.  Speak to her (quite innocently, mind!), by way of getting time enough to notice the face of the man who is driving her, and the name (if there is one) on his cart.  Do that, and you will do enough.  Pah! how that cigar poisons the air!  What will have become of your stomach when you get to my age?”

“I sha’n’t complain, Sir Patrick, if I can eat as good a dinner as you do.”

“That reminds me!  I met somebody I knew at the station.  Hester Dethridge has left her place, and gone to London by the train.  We may feed at Windygates—­we have done with dining now.  It has been a final quarrel this time between the mistress and the cook.  I have given Hester my address in London, and told her to let me know before she decides on another place.  A woman who can’t talk, and a woman who can cook, is simply a woman who has arrived at absolute perfection.  Such a treasure shall not go out of the family, if I can help it.  Did you notice the Bechamel sauce at lunch?  Pooh! a young man who smokes cigars doesn’t know the difference between Bechamel sauce and melted butter.  Good afternoon! good afternoon!”

He slackened the reins, and away he went to Craig Fernie.  Counting by years, the pony was twenty, and the pony’s driver was seventy.  Counting by vivacity and spirit, two of the most youthful characters in Scotland had got together that afternoon in the same chaise.

An hour more wore itself slowly out; and nothing had passed Arnold on the cross-roads but a few stray foot-passengers, a heavy wagon, and a gig with an old woman in it.  He rose again from the heather, weary of inaction, and resolved to walk backward and forward, within view of his post, for a change.  At the second turn, when his face happened to be set toward the open heath, he noticed another foot-passenger—­apparently a man—­far away in the empty distance.  Was the person coming toward him?

He advanced a little.  The stranger was doubtless advancing too, so rapidly did his figure now reveal itself, beyond all doubt, as the figure of a man.  A few minutes more and Arnold fancied he recognized it.  Yet a little longer, and he was quite sure.  There was no mistaking the lithe strength and grace of that man, and the smooth easy swiftness with which he covered his ground.  It was the hero of the coming foot-race.  It was Geoffrey on his way back to Windygates House.