This, with her signature, was all.  Having enclosed the note in an envelope, she left it on her table and went down to the library, where Buckland was sitting alone in gloomy reverie.  Mrs. Warricombe had told him of Sidwell’s incredible purpose.  Recognising his sister’s independence, and feeling sure that if she saw Peak it could only be to take final leave of him, he had decided to say no more.  To London he must perforce return this afternoon, but he had done his duty satisfactorily, and just in time.  It was plain that things had gone far between Peak and Sidwell; the latter’s behaviour avowed it.  But danger there could be none, with ‘The New Sophistry’ staring her in the eyes.  Let her see the fellow, by all means.  His evasions and hair-splittings would complete her deliverance.

‘There’s a train at 1.53,’ Buckland remarked, rising, ’and I shall catch it if I start now.  I can’t stay for the discomfort of luncheon.  You remain here till to-morrow, I understand?’

‘Yes.’

’It’s a pity you are angry with me.  It seems to me I have done you a kindness.’

‘I am not angry with you, Buckland,’ she replied, gently.  ’You have done what you were plainly obliged to do.’

’That’s a sensible way of putting it.  Let us say goodbye with friendliness then.’

Sidwell gave her hand, and tried to smile.  With a look of pained affection, Buckland went silently away.

Shortly after, Sidwell fetched her note from upstairs, and gave it to the housekeeper to be delivered by hand as soon as possible.  Mrs Warricombe remained invisible, and Sidwell went back to the library, where she sat with The Critical open before her at Godwin’s essay.

Hours went by; she still waited for an answer from Longbrook Street.

At six o’clock she went upstairs and spoke to her mother.

‘Shall you come down to dinner?’

‘No, Sidwell,’ was the cold reply.  ’Be so good as to excuse me.

Towards eight, a letter was brought to her; it could only be from Godwin Peak.  With eyes which endeavoured to take in all at once, and therefore could at first distinguish nothing, she scanned what seemed to be hurriedly written lines.

’I have tried to answer you in a long letter, but after all I can’t send it.  I fear you wouldn’t understand.  Better to repeat simply that I wrote the article you speak of.  I should have told you about it some day, but now my intentions and hopes matter nothing.  Whatever I said now would seem dishonest pleading.  Good-bye.’

She read this so many times that at length she had but to close her eyes to see every word clearly traced on the darkness.  The meanings she extracted from each sentence were scarcely less numerous than her perusals.  In spite of reason, this enigmatic answer brought her some solace.  He could defend himself; that was the assurance she had longed for.  Impossible (she again and again declared to herself with emphasis) for their intimacy to be resumed.  But in secret she could hold him, if not innocent, at all events not base.  She had not bestowed her love upon a mere impostor.