“Much is to be said for, and much is to be said against a single life,” thought the old gentleman, walking up and down the sequestered garden-path to which he had retired, and applying himself at shorter intervals than usual to the knob of his ivory cane.  “This, however, is, I take it, certain.  A man’s married friends can’t prevent him from leading the life of a bachelor, if he pleases.  But they can, and do, take devilish good care that he sha’n’t enjoy it!”

Sir Patrick’s meditations were interrupted by the appearance of a servant, previously instructed to keep him informed of the progress of events at the house.

“They’re all gone, Sir Patrick,” said the man.

“That’s a comfort, Simpson.  We have no visitors to deal with now, except the visitors who are staying in the house?”

“None, Sir Patrick.”

“They’re all gentlemen, are they not?”

“Yes, Sir Patrick.”

“That’s another comfort, Simpson.  Very good.  I’ll see Lady Lundie first.”

Does any other form of human resolution approach the firmness of a woman who is bent on discovering the frailties of another woman whom she hates?  You may move rocks, under a given set of circumstances.  But here is a delicate being in petticoats, who shrieks if a spider drops on her neck, and shudders if you approach her after having eaten an onion.  Can you move her, under a given set of circumstances, as set forth above?  Not you!

Sir Patrick found her ladyship instituting her inquiries on the same admirably exhaustive system which is pursued, in cases of disappearance, by the police.  Who was the last witness who had seen the missing person?  Who was the last servant who had seen Anne Silvester?  Begin with the men-servants, from the butler at the top to the stable boy at the bottom.  Go on with the women-servants, from the cook in all her glory to the small female child who weeds the garden.  Lady Lundie had cross-examined her way downward as far as the page, when Sir Patrick joined her.

“My dear lady! pardon me for reminding you again, that this is a free country, and that you have no claim whatever to investigate Miss Silvester’s proceedings after she has left your house.”

Lady Lundie raised her eyes, devotionally, to the ceiling.  She looked like a martyr to duty.  If you had seen her ladyship at that moment, you would have said yourself, “A martyr to duty.”

“No, Sir Patrick!  As a Christian woman, that is not my way of looking at it.  This unhappy person has lived under my roof.  This unhappy person has been the companion of Blanche.  I am responsible—­I am, in a manner, morally responsible.  I would give the world to be able to dismiss it as you do.  But no!  I must be satisfied that she is married.  In the interests of propriety.  For the quieting of my own conscience.  Before I lay my head on my pillow to-night, Sir Patrick—­before I lay my head on my pillow to-night!”