“In words?”

“Yes.”

“In writing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see what I am coming to?”

“Hardly yet.”

“You referred, when we first met in this room, to a letter which you recovered from Bishopriggs, at Perth.  I have ascertained from Arnold Brinkworth that the sheet of note-paper stolen from you contained two letters.  One was written by you to Delamayn—­the other was written by Delamayn to you.  The substance of this last Arnold remembered.  Your letter he had not read.  It is of the utmost importance, Miss Silvester, to let me see that correspondence before we part to-day.”

Anne made no answer.  She sat with her clasped hands on her lap.  Her eyes looked uneasily away from Sir Patrick’s face, for the first time.

“Will it not be enough,” she asked, after an interval, “if I tell you the substance of my letter, without showing it?”

“It will not be enough,” returned Sir Patrick, in the plainest manner.  “I hinted—­if you remember—­at the propriety of my seeing the letter, when you first mentioned it, and I observed that you purposely abstained from understanding me, I am grieved to put you, on this occasion, to a painful test.  But if you are to help me at this serious crisis, I have shown you the way.”

Anne rose from her chair, and answered by putting the letter into Sir Patrick’s hands.  “Remember what he has done, since I wrote that,” she said.  “And try to excuse me, if I own that I am ashamed to show it to you now.”

With those words she walked aside to the window.  She stood there, with her hand pressed on her breast, looking out absently on the murky London view of house roof and chimney, while Sir Patrick opened the letter.

It is necessary to the right appreciation of events, that other eyes besides Sir Patrick’s should follow the brief course of the correspondence in this place.

1. From Anne Silvester to Geoffrey Delamayn.

WINDYGATES HOUSE. August 19, 1868.

“GEOFFREY DELAMAYN,—­I have waited in the hope that you would ride over from your brother’s place, and see me—­and I have waited in vain.  Your conduct to me is cruelty itself; I will bear it no longer.  Consider! in your own interests, consider—­before you drive the miserable woman who has trusted you to despair.  You have promised me marriage by all that is sacred.  I claim your promise.  I insist on nothing less than to be what you vowed I should be—­what I have waited all this weary time to be—­what I am, in the sight of Heaven, your wedded wife.  Lady Lundie gives a lawn-party here on the 14th.  I know you have been asked.  I expect you to accept her invitation.  If I don’t see you, I won’t answer for what may happen.  My mind is made up to endure this suspense no longer.  Oh, Geoffrey, remember the past!  Be faithful—­be just—­to your loving wife,

“ANNE SILVESTER.”