“And Mrs. Romayne?” pursued Father Benwell.  “This is a sad trial for her.  She is in attendance on her mother, I suppose?”

“In constant attendance; I am quite alone now.  To change the subject, may I ask you to look at the reply which I have received from Penrose?  It is my excuse for troubling you with this visit.”

Father Benwell read the letter with the closest attention.  In spite of his habitual self-control, his vigilant eyes brightened as he handed it back.

Thus far, the priest’s well-planned scheme, (like Mr. Bitrake’s clever inquiries) had failed.  He had not even entrapped Mrs. Eyrecourt into revealing the marriage engagement.  Her unconquerable small-talk had foiled him at every point.  Even when he had deliberately kept his seat after the other guests at the tea-table had taken their departure, she rose with the most imperturbable coolness, and left him.  “I have a dinner and two parties to-night, and this is just the time when I take my little restorative nap.  Forgive me—­and do come again!” When he sent the fatal announcement of the marriage to Rome, he had been obliged to confess that he was indebted for the discovery to the newspaper.  He had accepted the humiliation; he had accepted the defeat—­but he was not beaten yet.  “I counted on Romayne’s weakness; and Miss Eyrecourt counted on Romayne’s weakness; and Miss Eyrecourt has won.  So let it be.  My turn will come.”  In that manner he had reconciled himself to his position.  And now—­he knew it when he handed back the letter to Romayne—­his turn had come!

“You can hardly go to Paris to consult the book,” he said, “in the present state of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s health?”

“Certainly not!”

“Perhaps you will send somebody to search the catalogue at the British Museum?”

“I should have done that already, Father Benwell, but for the very kind allusion in your note to your friend in the country.  Even if the book is in the Museum Library, I shall be obliged to go to the Reading Room to get my information.  It would be far more convenient to me to have the volume at home to consult, if you think your friend will trust me with it.”

“I am certain he will trust you with it.  My friend is Mr. Winterfield, of Beaupark House, North Devon.  Perhaps you may have heard of him?”

“No; the name is quite new to me.”

“Then come and see the man himself.  He is now in London—­and I am entirely at your service.”

In half an hour more, Romayne was presented to a well-bred, amiable gentleman in the prime of life, smoking, and reading the newspaper.  The bowl of his long pipe rested on the floor, on one side of him, and a handsome red and white spaniel reposed on the other.  Before his visitors had been two minutes in the room, he understood the motive which had brought them to consult him, and sent for a telegraphic form.

“My steward will find the book and forward it to your address by passenger train this afternoon,” he said.  “I will tell him to put my printed catalogue of the library into the parcel, in case I have any other books which may be of use to you.”