Lady Lundie signed to Blanche to stand aside, and advanced toward the folding-doors.  Mr. Moy stopped her.

“I advise your ladyship to be patient.  Interference is useless there.”

“Am I not to interfere, Sir, in my own house?”

“Unless I am entirely mistaken, madam, the end of the proceedings in your house is at hand.  You will damage your own interests by interfering.  Let us know what we are about at last.  Let the end come.”

Lady Lundie yielded, and returned to her place.  They all waited in silence for the opening of the doors.

Sir Patrick Lundie and Anne Silvester were alone in the room.

He took from the breast-pocket of his coat the sheet of note-paper which contained Anne’s letter, and Geoffrey’s reply.  His hand trembled as he held it; his voice faltered as he spoke.

“I have done all that can be done,” he said.  “I have left nothing untried, to prevent the necessity of producing this.”

“I feel your kindness gratefully, Sir Patrick.  You must produce it now.”

The woman’s calmness presented a strange and touching contrast to the man’s emotion.  There was no shrinking in her face, there was no unsteadiness in her voice as she answered him.  He took her hand.  Twice he attempted to speak; and twice his own agitation overpowered him.  He offered the letter to her in silence.

In silence, on her side, she put the letter away from her, wondering what he meant.

“Take it back,” he said.  “I can’t produce it!  I daren’t produce it!  After what my own eyes have seen, after what my own ears have heard, in the next room—­as God is my witness, I daren’t ask you to declare yourself Geoffrey Delamayn’s wife!”

She answered him in one word.

“Blanche!”

He shook his head impatiently.  “Not even in Blanche’s interests!  Not even for Blanche’s sake!  If there is any risk, it is a risk I am ready to run.  I hold to my own opinion.  I believe my own view to be right.  Let it come to an appeal to the law!  I will fight the case, and win it.”

“Are you sure of winning it, Sir Patrick?”

Instead of replying, he pressed the letter on her.  “Destroy it,” he whispered.  “And rely on my silence.”

She took the letter from him.

“Destroy it,” he repeated.  “They may open the doors.  They may come in at any moment, and see it in your hand.”

“I have something to ask you, Sir Patrick, before I destroy it.  Blanche refuses to go back to her husband, unless she returns with the certain assurance of being really his wife.  If I produce this letter, she may go back to him to-day.  If I declare myself Geoffrey Delamayn’s wife, I clear Arnold Brinkworth, at once and forever of all suspicion of being married to me.  Can you as certainly and effectually clear him in any other way?  Answer me that, as a man of honor speaking to a woman who implicitly trusts him!”