Captain Newenden, approaching to speak to him, stopped half-way, hesitated, thought better of it—­and addressed himself to Mr. Moy.

Geoffrey’s legal adviser—­a Scotchman of the ruddy, ready, and convivial type—­cordially met the advance.  He announced, in reply to the captain’s inquiry, that the witnesses (Mrs. Inchbare and Bishopriggs) were waiting below until they were wanted, in the housekeeper’s room.  Had there been any difficulty in finding them?  Not the least.  Mrs. Inchbare was, as a matter of course, at her hotel.  Inquiries being set on foot for Bishopriggs, it appeared that he and the landlady had come to an understanding, and that he had returned to his old post of headwaiter at the inn.  The captain and Mr. Moy kept up the conversation between them, thus begun, with unflagging ease and spirit.  Theirs were the only voices heard in the trying interval that elapsed before the next knock was heard at the door.

At last it came.  There could be no doubt now as to the persons who might next be expected to enter the room.  Lady Lundie took her step-daughter firmly by the hand.  She was not sure of what Blanche’s first impulse might lead her to do.  For the first time in her life, Blanche left her hand willingly in her step-mother’s grasp.

The door opened, and they came in.

Sir Patrick Lundie entered first, with Anne Silvester on his arm.  Arnold
Brinkworth followed them.

Both Sir Patrick and Anne bowed in silence to the persons assembled.  Lady Lundie ceremoniously returned her brother-in-law’s salute—­and pointedly abstained from noticing Anne’s presence in the room.  Blanche never looked up.  Arnold advanced to her, with his hand held out.  Lady Lundie rose, and motioned him back.  “Not yet, Mr. Brinkworth!” she said, in her most quietly merciless manner.  Arnold stood, heedless of her, looking at his wife.  His wife lifted her eyes to his; the tears rose in them on the instant.  Arnold’s dark complexion turned ashy pale under the effort that it cost him to command himself.  “I won’t distress you,” he said, gently—­and turned back again to the table at which Sir Patrick and Anne were seated together apart from the rest.  Sir Patrick took his hand, and pressed it in silent approval.

The one person who took no part, even as spectator, in the events that followed the appearance of Sir Patrick and his companions in the room—­was Geoffrey.  The only change visible in him was a change in the handling of his walking-stick.  Instead of tracing patterns on the carpet, it beat a tattoo.  For the rest, there he sat with his heavy head on his breast and his brawny arms on his knees—­weary of it by anticipation before it had begun.

Sir Patrick broke the silence.  He addressed himself to his sister-in-law.

“Lady Lundie, are all the persons present whom you expected to see here to-day?”

The gathered venom in Lady Lundie seized the opportunity of planting its first sting.