“If you can identify him by Mrs. Inchbare’s description,” returned Sir Patrick, “you will be a great deal cleverer than I am.  Here is the picture of the man, as painted by the landlady:  Young; middle-sized; dark hair, eyes, and complexion; nice temper, pleasant way of speaking.  Leave out ‘young,’ and the rest is the exact contrary of Mr. Delamayn.  So far, Mrs. Inchbare guides us plainly enough.  But how are we to apply her description to the right person?  There must be, at the lowest computation, five hundred thousand men in England who are young, middle-sized, dark, nice-tempered, and pleasant spoken.  One of the footmen here answers that description in every particular.”

“And Arnold answers it,” said Blanche—­as a still stronger instance of the provoking vagueness of the description.

“And Arnold answers it,” repeated Sir Patrick, quite agreeing with her.

They had barely said those words when Arnold himself appeared, approaching Sir Patrick with a pack of cards in his hand.

There—­at the very moment when they had both guessed the truth, without feeling the slightest suspicion of it in their own minds—­there stood Discovery, presenting itself unconsciously to eyes incapable of seeing it, in the person of the man who had passed Anne Silvester off as his wife at the Craig Fernie inn!  The terrible caprice of Chance, the merciless irony of Circumstance, could go no further than this.  The three had their feet on the brink of the precipice at that moment.  And two of them were smiling at an odd coincidence; and one of them was shuffling a pack of cards!

“We have done with the Antiquities at last!” said Arnold; “and we are going to play at Whist.  Sir Patrick, will you choose a card?”

“Too soon after dinner, my good fellow, for me.  Play the first rubber, and then give me another chance.  By-the-way,” he added “Miss Silvester has been traced to Kirkandrew.  How is it that you never saw her go by?”

“She can’t have gone my way, Sir Patrick, or I must have seen her.”

Having justified himself in those terms, he was recalled to the other end of the room by the whist-party, impatient for the cards which he had in his hand.

“What were we talking of when he interrupted us?” said Sir Patrick to Blanche.

“Of the man, uncle, who was with Miss Silvester at the inn.”

“It’s useless to pursue that inquiry, my dear, with nothing better than Mrs. Inchbare’s description to help us.”

Blanche looked round at the sleeping Geoffrey.

“And he knows!” she said.  “It’s maddening, uncle, to look at the brute snoring in his chair!”

Sir Patrick held up a warning hand.  Before a word more could be said between them they were silenced again by another interruption.