“Ay! ay!  I’ll do weel, I trow, to look at this while my mind’s runnin’ on it,” said Mr. Bishopriggs.  “The cairds may e’en find their way to the parlor by other hands than mine.”

He forthwith sent the cards to Arnold by his second in command, closed the pantry door, and carefully smoothed out the crumpled sheet of paper on which the two letters were written.  This done, he trimmed his candle, and began with the letter in ink, which occupied the first three pages of the sheet of note-paper.

It ran thus: 

“WINDYGATES HOUSE, August 12, 1868.

“GEOFFREY DELAMAYN,—­I have waited in the hope that you would ride over from your brother’s place, and see me—­and I have waited in vain.  Your conduct to me is cruelty itself; I will bear it no longer.  Consider! in your own interests, consider—­before you drive the miserable woman who has trusted you to despair.  You have promised me marriage by all that is sacred.  I claim your promise.  I insist on nothing less than to be what you vowed I should be—­what I have waited all this weary time to be—­what I am, in the sight of Heaven, your wedded wife.  Lady Lundie gives a lawn-party here on the 14th.  I know you have been asked.  I expect you to accept her invitation.  If I don’t see you, I won’t answer for what may happen.  My mind is made up to endure this suspense no longer.  Oh, Geoffrey, remember the past!  Be faithful—­be just—­to your loving wife,

“ANNE SILVESTER.”

Mr. Bishopriggs paused.  His commentary on the correspondence, so far, was simple enough.  “Hot words (in ink) from the leddy to the gentleman!” He ran his eye over the second letter, on the fourth page of the paper, and added, cynically, “A trifle caulder (in pencil) from the gentleman to the leddy!  The way o’ the warld, Sirs!  From the time o’ Adam downwards, the way o’ the warld!”

The second letter ran thus: 

“DEAR ANNE,—­Just called to London to my father.  They have telegraphed him in a bad way.  Stop where you are, and I will write you.  Trust the bearer.  Upon my soul, I’ll keep my promise.  Your loving husband that is to be,

“GEOFFREY DELAMAYN.”

WINDYGATES HOUSE, Augt. 14, 4 P. M.

“In a mortal hurry.  Train starts at 4.30.”

There it ended!

“Who are the pairties in the parlor?  Is ane o’ them ‘Silvester?’ and t’other ‘Delamayn?’” pondered Mr. Bishopriggs, slowly folding the letter up again in its original form.  “Hech, Sirs! what, being intairpreted, may a’ this mean?”

He mixed himself a second glass of toddy, as an aid to reflection, and sat sipping the liquor, and twisting and turning the letter in his gouty fingers.  It was not easy to see his way to the true connection between the lady and gentleman in the parlor and the two letters now in his own possession.  They might be themselves the writers of the letters, or they might be only friends of the writers.  Who was to decide?