“Do you think I can ever forget,” he cried, warmly, “that you swam ashore with me and saved my life?”

Geoffrey ventured a step nearer to the object that he had in view.

“One good turn deserves another,” he said, “don’t it?”

Arnold took his hand.  “Only tell me!” he eagerly rejoined—­“only tell me what I can do!”

“You are going to-day to see your new place, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you put off going till to-morrow?”

“If it’s any thing serious—­of course I can!”

Geoffrey looked round at the entrance to the summer-house, to make sure that they were alone.

“You know the governess here, don’t you?” he said, in a whisper.

“Miss Silvester?”

“Yes.  I’ve got into a little difficulty with Miss Silvester.  And there isn’t a living soul I can ask to help me but you.”

“You know I will help you.  What is it?”

“It isn’t so easy to say.  Never mind—­you’re no saint either, are you?  You’ll keep it a secret, of course?  Look here!  I’ve acted like an infernal fool.  I’ve gone and got the girl into a scrape—­”

Arnold drew back, suddenly understanding him.

“Good heavens, Geoffrey!  You don’t mean—­”

“I do!  Wait a bit—­that’s not the worst of it.  She has left the house.”

“Left the house?”

“Left, for good and all.  She can’t come back again.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s written to her missus.  Women (hang ’em!) never do these things by halves.  She’s left a letter to say she’s privately married, and gone off to her husband.  Her husband is—­Me.  Not that I’m married to her yet, you understand.  I have only promised to marry her.  She has gone on first (on the sly) to a place four miles from this.  And we settled I was to follow, and marry her privately this afternoon.  That’s out of the question now.  While she’s expecting me at the inn I shall be bowling along to London.  Somebody must tell her what has happened—­or she’ll play the devil, and the whole business will burst up.  I can’t trust any of the people here.  I’m done for, old chap, unless you help me.”

Arnold lifted his hands in dismay.  “It’s the most dreadful situation,
Geoffrey, I ever heard of in my life!”

Geoffrey thoroughly agreed with him.  “Enough to knock a man over,” he said, “isn’t it?  I’d give something for a drink of beer.”  He produced his everlasting pipe, from sheer force of habit.  “Got a match?” he asked.

Arnold’s mind was too preoccupied to notice the question.

“I hope you won’t think I’m making light of your father’s illness,” he said, earnestly.  “But it seems to me—­I must say it—­it seems to me that the poor girl has the first claim on you.”

Geoffrey looked at him in surly amazement.

“The first claim on me?  Do you think I’m going to risk being cut out of my father’s will?  Not for the best woman that ever put on a petticoat!”