There was genuine distress in her face, there was true feeling in her voice.  Who would have believed that there were reserves of merciless insolence and heartless cruelty in this woman—­and that they had been lavishly poured out on a fallen sister not five minutes since?

“I will do all I can,” said Julius, raising her.  “Let us talk of it when you are more composed.  Try a little music,” he repeated, “just to quiet your nerves.”

“Would you like me to play?” asked Mrs. Glenarm, becoming a model of feminine docility at a moment’s notice.

Julius opened the Sonatas of Mozart, and shouldered his violin.

“Let’s try the Fifteenth,” he said, placing Mrs. Glenarm at the piano.  “We will begin with the Adagio.  If ever there was divine music written by mortal man, there it is!”

They began.  At the third bar Mrs. Glenarm dropped a note—­and the bow of Julius paused shuddering on the strings.

“I can’t play!” she said.  “I am so agitated; I am so anxious.  How am I to find out whether that wretch is really married or not?  Who can I ask?  I can’t go to Geoffrey in London—­the trainers won’t let me see him.  I can’t appeal to Mr. Brinkworth himself—­I am not even acquainted with him.  Who else is there?  Do think, and tell me!”

There was but one chance of making her return to the Adagio—­the chance of hitting on a suggestion which would satisfy and quiet her.  Julius laid his violin on the piano, and considered the question before him carefully.

“There are the witnesses,” he said.  “If Geoffrey’s story is to be depended on, the landlady and the waiter at the inn can speak to the facts.”

“Low people!” objected Mrs. Glenarm.  “People I don’t know.  People who might take advantage of my situation, and be insolent to me.”

Julius considered once more; and made another suggestion.  With the fatal ingenuity of innocence, he hit on the idea of referring Mrs. Glenarm to no less a person than Lady Lundie herself!

“There is our good friend at Windygates,” he said.  “Some whisper of the matter may have reached Lady Lundie’s ears.  It may be a little awkward to call on her (if she has heard any thing) at the time of a serious family disaster.  You are the best judge of that, however.  All I can do is to throw out the notion.  Windygates isn’t very far off—­and something might come of it.  What do you think?”

Something might come of it!  Let it be remembered that Lady Lundie had been left entirely in the dark—­that she had written to Sir Patrick in a tone which plainly showed that her self-esteem was wounded and her suspicion roused—­and that her first intimation of the serious dilemma in which Arnold Brinkworth stood was now likely, thanks to Julius Delamayn, to reach her from the lips of a mere acquaintance.  Let this be remembered; and then let the estimate be formed of what might come of it—­not at Windygates only, but also at Ham Farm!