“I am helping you.  Let Blanche alone.  Don’t speak of the marriage again, the next time you see her.  If she mentions it, beg her pardon, and tell her you won’t press the question any more.  I shall see her in an hour or two, and I shall take exactly the same tone myself.  You have put the idea into her mind—­leave it there to ripen.  Give her distress about Miss Silvester nothing to feed on.  Don’t stimulate it by contradiction; don’t rouse it to defend itself by disparagement of her lost friend.  Leave Time to edge her gently nearer and nearer to the husband who is waiting for her—­and take my word for it, Time will have her ready when the settlements are ready.”

Toward the luncheon hour Sir Patrick saw Blanche, and put in practice the principle which he had laid down.  She was perfectly tranquil before her uncle left her.  A little later, Arnold was forgiven.  A little later still, the old gentleman’s sharp observation noted that his niece was unusually thoughtful, and that she looked at Arnold, from time to time, with an interest of a new kind—­an interest which shyly hid itself from Arnold’s view.  Sir Patrick went up to dress for dinner, with a comfortable inner conviction that the difficulties which had beset him were settled at last.  Sir Patrick had never been more mistaken in his life.

The business of the toilet was far advanced.  Duncan had just placed the glass in a good light; and Duncan’s master was at that turning point in his daily life which consisted in attaining, or not attaining, absolute perfection in the tying of his white cravat—­when some outer barbarian, ignorant of the first principles of dressing a gentleman’s throat, presumed to knock at the bedroom door.  Neither master nor servant moved or breathed until the integrity of the cravat was placed beyond the reach of accident.  Then Sir Patrick cast the look of final criticism in the glass, and breathed again when he saw that it was done.

“A little labored in style, Duncan.  But not bad, considering the interruption?”

“By no means, Sir Patrick.”

“See who it is.”

Duncan went to the door; and returned, to his master, with an excuse for the interruption, in the shape of a telegram!

Sir Patrick started at the sight of that unwelcome message.  “Sign the receipt, Duncan,” he said—­and opened the envelope.  Yes!  Exactly as he had anticipated!  News of Miss Silvester, on the very day when he had decided to abandon all further attempt at discovering her.  The telegram ran thus: 

“Message received from Falkirk this morning.  Lady, as described, left the train at Falkirk last night.  Went on, by the first train this morning, to Glasgow.  Wait further instructions.”

“Is the messenger to take any thing back, Sir Patrick?”

“No.  I must consider what I am to do.  If I find it necessary I will send to the station.  Here is news of Miss Silvester, Duncan,” continued Sir Patrick, when the messenger had gone.  “She has been traced to Glasgow.”