Even Randal’s patient and gentle nature rose in revolt against his brother’s treatment of him.  He entered his sitting-room in silence.  Malcolm followed, and pointed to a letter on the table.  “I think you must have thrown it away by mistake, sir,” the old man explained; “I found it in the waste-paper basket.”  He bowed with the unfailing respect of the old school, and withdrew.

Randal’s first resolve was to dismiss his brother from further consideration.  “Kindness is thrown away on Herbert,” he thought; “I shall treat him for the future as he has treated me.”

But his brother was still in his mind.  He opened Mrs. Presty’s letter—­on the chance that it might turn the current of his thoughts in a new direction.

In spite of Mrs. Presty, in spite of himself, his heart softened toward the man who had behaved so badly to him.  Instead of reading the letter, he was now trying to discover a connection between his brother’s visit to the club and his brother’s angry message.  Had Herbert heard something said, among gossiping members in the smoking-room, which might account for his conduct?  If Randal had belonged to the club he would have gone there to make inquiries.  How could he get the information that he wanted, in some other way?

After considering it for a while, he remembered the dinner that he had given to his friend Sarrazin on his return from the United States, and the departure of the lawyer to his club, with a purpose in view which interested them both.  It was the same club to which Herbert belonged.  Randal wrote at once to Mr. Sarrazin, mentioning what had happened, and acknowledging the anxiety tha t weighed on his mind.

Having instructed Malcolm to take the letter to the lawyer’s house, and, if he was not at home, to inquire where he might be found, Randal adopted the readiest means of composing himself, in the servant’s absence, by lighting his pipe.

He was enveloped in clouds of tobacco-smoke—­the only clouds which we can trust never to prove unworthy of our confidence in them—­when Mrs. Presty’s letter caught his attention.  If the month had been January instead of July, he would have thrown it into the fire.  Under present circumstances, he took it up and read it: 

“I bear no malice, dear Randal, and I write to you as affectionately as if you had kept your temper on the occasion when we last met.

“You will be pleased to hear that Catherine was as thoroughly distressed as you could wish her to be, when it became my disagreeable duty to mention what had passed between us, by way of accounting for your absence.  She was quite unable to rally her spirits, even with dear Captain Bennydeck present to encourage her.

“‘I am not receiving you as I ought,’ she said to him, when we began dinner, ’but there is perhaps some excuse for me.  I have lost the regard and esteem of an old friend, who has cruelly wronged me.’  From motives of delicacy (which I don’t expect you to understand) she refrained from mentioning your name.  The prettiest answer that I ever heard was the answer that the Captain returned.  ‘Let the true friend,’ he said, ’take the place in your heart which the false friend has lost.’