Sir Patrick pointed to the two last sentences in the telegram:  “Inquiries telegraphed to Falkirk.  If with any result, you shall know.”

“We must hope for the best, Blanche.  They evidently suspect her of having got out at the junction of the two railways for the purpose of giving the telegraph the slip.  There is no help for it.  Go to bed, child—­go to bed.”

Blanche kissed her uncle in silence and went away.  The bright young face was sad with the first hopeless sorrow which the old man had yet seen in it.  His niece’s parting look dwelt painfully on his mind when he was up in his room, with the faithful Duncan getting him ready for his bed.

“This is a bad business, Duncan.  I don’t like to say so to Miss Lundie; but I greatly fear the governess has baffled us.”

“It seems likely, Sir Patrick.  The poor young lady looks quite heart-broken about it.”

“You noticed that too, did you?  She has lived all her life, you see, with Miss Silvester; and there is a very strong attachment between them.  I am uneasy about my niece, Duncan.  I am afraid this disappointment will have a serious effect on her.”

“She’s young, Sir Patrick.”

“Yes, my friend, she’s young; but the young (when they are good for any thing) have warm hearts.  Winter hasn’t stolen on them, Duncan!  And they feel keenly.”

“I think there’s reason to hope, Sir, that Miss Lundie may get over it more easily than you suppose.”

“What reason, pray?”

“A person in my position can hardly venture to speak freely, Sir, on a delicate matter of this kind.”

Sir Patrick’s temper flashed out, half-seriously, half-whimsically, as usual.

“Is that a snap at Me, you old dog?  If I am not your friend, as well as your master, who is?  Am I in the habit of keeping any of my harmless fellow-creatures at a distance?  I despise the cant of modern Liberalism; but it’s not the less true that I have, all my life, protested against the inhuman separation of classes in England.  We are, in that respect, brag as we may of our national virtue, the most unchristian people in the civilized world.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir Patrick—­”

“God help me!  I’m talking polities at this time of night!  It’s your fault, Duncan.  What do you mean by casting my station in my teeth, because I can’t put my night-cap on comfortably till you have brushed my hair?  I have a good mind to get up and brush yours.  There! there!  I’m uneasy about my niece—­nervous irritability, my good fellow, that’s all.  Let’s hear what you have to say about Miss Lundie.  And go on with my hair.  And don’t be a humbug.”

“I was about to remind you, Sir Patrick, that Miss Lundie has another interest in her life to turn to.  If this matter of Miss Silvester ends badly—­and I own it begins to look as if it would—­I should hurry my niece’s marriage, Sir, and see if that wouldn’t console her.”