“If we have any chance of tracing the person who has written this,” I said, returning the letter to Miss Halcombe, “there can be no harm in seizing our opportunity the moment it offers.  I think we ought to speak to the gardener again about the elderly woman who gave him the letter, and then to continue our inquiries in the village.  But first let me ask a question.  You mentioned just now the alternative of consulting Mr. Fairlie’s legal adviser to-morrow.  Is there no possibility of communicating with him earlier?  Why not to-day?”

“I can only explain,” replied Miss Halcombe, “by entering into certain particulars, connected with my sister’s marriage-engagement, which I did not think it necessary or desirable to mention to you this morning.  One of Sir Percival Glyde’s objects in coming here on Monday, is to fix the period of his marriage, which has hitherto been left quite unsettled.  He is anxious that the event should take place before the end of the year.”

“Does Miss Fairlie know of that wish?” I asked eagerly.

“She has no suspicion of it, and after what has happened, I shall not take the responsibility upon myself of enlightening her.  Sir Percival has only mentioned his views to Mr. Fairlie, who has told me himself that he is ready and anxious, as Laura’s guardian, to forward them.  He has written to London, to the family solicitor, Mr. Gilmore.  Mr. Gilmore happens to be away in Glasgow on business, and he has replied by proposing to stop at Limmeridge House on his way back to town.  He will arrive to-morrow, and will stay with us a few days, so as to allow Sir Percival time to plead his own cause.  If he succeeds, Mr. Gilmore will then return to London, taking with him his instructions for my sister’s marriage-settlement.  You understand now, Mr. Hartright, why I speak of waiting to take legal advice until to-morrow?  Mr. Gilmore is the old and tried friend of two generations of Fairlies, and we can trust him, as we could trust no one else.”

The marriage-settlement!  The mere hearing of those two words stung me with a jealous despair that was poison to my higher and better instincts.  I began to think—­it is hard to confess this, but I must suppress nothing from beginning to end of the terrible story that I now stand committed to reveal—­I began to think, with a hateful eagerness of hope, of the vague charges against Sir Percival Glyde which the anonymous letter contained.  What if those wild accusations rested on a foundation of truth?  What if their truth could be proved before the fatal words of consent were spoken, and the marriage-settlement was drawn?  I have tried to think since, that the feeling which then animated me began and ended in pure devotion to Miss Fairlie’s interests, but I have never succeeded in deceiving myself into believing it, and I must not now attempt to deceive others.  The feeling began and ended in reckless, vindictive, hopeless hatred of the man who was to marry her.