In the first case, the lady’s object would appear to have been as good as gained; for the two had certainly asserted themselves to be man and wife, in his own presence, and in the presence of the landlady.  In the second case, the correspondence so carelessly thrown aside might, for all a stranger knew to the contrary, prove to be of some importance in the future.  Acting on this latter view, Mr. Bishopriggs—­whose past experience as “a bit clerk body,” in Sir Patrick’s chambers, had made a man of business of him—­produced his pen and ink, and indorsed the letter with a brief dated statement of the circumstances under which he had found it.  “I’ll do weel to keep the Doecument,” he thought to himself.  “Wha knows but there’ll be a reward offered for it ane o’ these days?  Eh! eh! there may be the warth o’ a fi’ pun’ note in this, to a puir lad like me!”

With that comforting reflection, he drew out a battered tin cash-box from the inner recesses of the drawer, and locked up the stolen correspondence to bide its time.

The storm rose higher and higher as the evening advanced.

In the sitting-room, the state of affairs, perpetually changing, now presented itself under another new aspect.

Arnold had finished his dinner, and had sent it away.  He had next drawn a side-table up to the sofa on which Anne lay—­had shuffled the pack of cards—­and was now using all his powers of persuasion to induce her to try one game at Ecarte with him, by way of diverting her attention from the tumult of the storm.  In sheer weariness, she gave up contesting the matter; and, raising herself languidly on the sofa, said she would try to play.  “Nothing can make matters worse than they are,” she thought, despairingly, as Arnold dealt the cards for her.  “Nothing can justify my inflicting my own wretchedness on this kind-hearted boy!”

Two worse players never probably sat down to a game.  Anne’s attention perpetually wandered; and Anne’s companion was, in all human probability, the most incapable card-player in Europe.

Anne turned up the trump—­the nine of Diamonds.  Arnold looked at his hand—­and “proposed.”  Anne declined to change the cards.  Arnold announced, with undiminished good-humor, that he saw his way clearly, now, to losing the game, and then played his first card—­the Queen of Trumps!

Anne took it with the King, and forgot to declare the King.  She played the ten of Trumps.

Arnold unexpectedly discovered the eight of Trumps in his hand.  “What a pity!” he said, as he played it.  “Hullo! you haven’t marked the King!  I’ll do it for you.  That’s two—­no, three—­to you.  I said I should lose the game.  Couldn’t be expected to do any thing (could I?) with such a hand as mine.  I’ve lost every thing now I’ve lost my trumps.  You to play.”

Anne looked at her hand.  At the same moment the lightning flashed into the room through the ill-closed shutters; the roar of the thunder burst over the house, and shook it to its foundation.  The screaming of some hysterical female tourist, and the barking of a dog, rose shrill from the upper floor of the inn.  Anne’s nerves could support it no longer.  She flung her cards on the table, and sprang to her feet.