She was engaged to be married, and her future husband was Sir Percival Glyde.  A man of the rank of Baronet, and the owner of property in Hampshire.

There were hundreds of baronets in England, and dozens of landowners in Hampshire.  Judging by the ordinary rules of evidence, I had not the shadow of a reason, thus far, for connecting Sir Percival Glyde with the suspicious words of inquiry that had been spoken to me by the woman in white.  And yet, I did connect him with them.  Was it because he had now become associated in my mind with Miss Fairlie, Miss Fairlie being, in her turn, associated with Anne Catherick, since the night when I had discovered the ominous likeness between them?  Had the events of the morning so unnerved me already that I was at the mercy of any delusion which common chances and common coincidences might suggest to my imagination?  Impossible to say.  I could only feel that what had passed between Miss Halcombe and myself, on our way from the summer-house, had affected me very strangely.  The foreboding of some undiscoverable danger lying hid from us all in the darkness of the future was strong on me.  The doubt whether I was not linked already to a chain of events which even my approaching departure from Cumberland would be powerless to snap asunder—­the doubt whether we any of us saw the end as the end would really be—­gathered more and more darkly over my mind.  Poignant as it was, the sense of suffering caused by the miserable end of my brief, presumptuous love seemed to be blunted and deadened by the still stronger sense of something obscurely impending, something invisibly threatening, that Time was holding over our heads.

I had been engaged with the drawings little more than half an hour, when there was a knock at the door.  It opened, on my answering; and, to my surprise, Miss Halcombe entered the room.

Her manner was angry and agitated.  She caught up a chair for herself before I could give her one, and sat down in it, close at my side.

“Mr. Hartright,” she said, “I had hoped that all painful subjects of conversation were exhausted between us, for to-day at least.  But it is not to be so.  There is some underhand villainy at work to frighten my sister about her approaching marriage.  You saw me send the gardener on to the house, with a letter addressed, in a strange handwriting, to Miss Fairlie?”

“Certainly.”

“The letter is an anonymous letter—­a vile attempt to injure Sir Percival Glyde in my sister’s estimation.  It has so agitated and alarmed her that I have had the greatest possible difficulty in composing her spirits sufficiently to allow me to leave her room and come here.  I know this is a family matter on which I ought not to consult you, and in which you can feel no concern or interest——­”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Halcombe.  I feel the strongest possible concern and interest in anything that affects Miss Fairlie’s happiness or yours.”