“Am I right in supposing that Mr. Delamayn’s father is dangerously ill?” he asked, addressing himself to Arnold.

“Dangerously ill, in London,” Arnold answered.  “Geoffrey must leave Windygates with me.  The train I am traveling by meets the train his brother is traveling by, at the junction.  I shall leave him at the second station from here.”

“Didn’t you tell me that Lady Lundie was going to send you to the railway in a gig?”

“Yes.”

“If the servant drives, there will be three of you—­and there will be no room.”

“We had better ask for some other vehicle,” suggested Arnold.

Sir Patrick looked at his watch.  There was no time to change the carriage.  He turned to Geoffrey.  “Can you drive, Mr. Delamayn?”

Still impenetrably silent, Geoffrey replied by a nod of the head.

Without noticing the unceremonious manner in which he had been answered, Sir Patrick went on: 

“In that case, you can leave the gig in charge of the station-master.  I’ll tell the servant that he will not be wanted to drive.”

“Let me save you the trouble, Sir Patrick,” said Arnold.

Sir Patrick declined, by a gesture.  He turned again, with undiminished courtesy, to Geoffrey.  “It is one of the duties of hospitality, Mr. Delamayn, to hasten your departure, under these sad circumstances.  Lady Lundie is engaged with her guests.  I will see myself that there is no unnecessary delay in sending you to the station.”  He bowed—­and left the summer-house.

Arnold said a word of sympathy to his friend, when they were alone.

“I am sorry for this, Geoffrey.  I hope and trust you will get to London in time.”

He stopped.  There was something in Geoffrey’s face—­a strange mixture of doubt and bewilderment, of annoyance and hesitation—­which was not to be accounted for as the natural result of the news that he had received.  His color shifted and changed; he picked fretfully at his finger-nails; he looked at Arnold as if he was going to speak—­and then looked away again, in silence.

“Is there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about your father?” asked Arnold.

“I’m in the devil’s own mess,” was the answer.

“Can I do any thing to help you?”

Instead of making a direct reply, Geoffrey lifted his mighty hand, and gave Arnold a friendly slap on the shoulder which shook him from head to foot.  Arnold steadied himself, and waited—­wondering what was coming next.

“I say, old fellow!” said Geoffrey.

“Yes.”

“Do you remember when the boat turned keel upward in Lisbon Harbor?”

Arnold started.  If he could have called to mind his first interview in the summer-house with his father’s old friend he might have remembered Sir Patrick’s prediction that he would sooner or later pay, with interest, the debt he owed to the man who had saved his life.  As it was his memory reverted at a bound to the time of the boat-accident.  In the ardor of his gratitude and the innocence of his heart, he almost resented his friend’s question as a reproach which he had not deserved.