2. From Geoffrey Delamayn to Anne Silvester.

“DEAR ANNE,—­Just called to London to my father.  They have telegraphed him in a bad way.  Stop where you are, and I will write you.  Trust the bearer.  Upon my soul, I’ll keep my promise.  Your loving husband that is to be,

“GEOFFREY DELAMAYN.

“WINDYGATES HOUSE Augt. 14, 4 P. M.

“In a mortal hurry.  The train starts 4.30.”

Sir Patrick read the correspondence with breathless attention to the end.  At the last lines of the last letter he did what he had not done for twenty years past—­he sprang to his feet at a bound, and he crossed a room without the help of his ivory cane.

Anne started; and turning round from the window, looked at him in silent surprise.  He was under the influence of strong emotion; his face, his voice, his manner, all showed it.

“How long had you been in Scotland, when you wrote this?” He pointed to Anne’s letter as he asked the question, put ting it so eagerly that he stammered over the first words.  “More than three weeks?” he added, with his bright black eyes fixed in absorbing interest on her face.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I am certain of it.”

“You can refer to persons who have seen you?”

“Easily.”

He turned the sheet of note-paper, and pointed to Geoffrey’s penciled letter on the fourth page.

“How long had he been in Scotland, when he wrote this?  More than three weeks, too?”

Anne considered for a moment.

“For God’s sake, be careful!” said Sir Patrick.  “You don’t know what depends on this, If your memory is not clear about it, say so.”

“My memory was confused for a moment.  It is clear again now.  He had been at his brother’s in Perthshire three weeks before he wrote that.  And before he went to Swanhaven, he spent three or four days in the valley of the Esk.”

“Are you sure again?”

“Quite sure!”

“Do you know of any one who saw him in the valley of the Esk?”

“I know of a person who took a note to him, from me.”

“A person easily found?”

“Quite easily.”

Sir Patrick laid aside the letter, and seized in ungovernable agitation on both her hands.

“Listen to me,” he said.  “The whole conspiracy against Arnold Brinkworth and you falls to the ground before that correspondence.  When you and he met at the inn—­”

He paused, and looked at her.  Her hands were beginning to tremble in his.

“When you and Arnold Brinkworth met at the inn,” he resumed, “the law of Scotland had made you a married woman.  On the day, and at the hour, when he wrote those lines at the back of your letter to him, you were Geoffrey Delamayn’s wedded wife!”

He stopped, and looked at her again.

Without a word in reply, without the slightest movement in her from head to foot, she looked back at him.  The blank stillness of horror was in her face.  The deadly cold of horror was in her hands.