sage. My compliments to Sir Patrick--and I wish
to see him immediately."

* * * * *

The preparations for the departure to the shooting-cottage were just
completed; and the one question that remained to be settled was, whether
Sir Patrick could accompany the party--when the man-servant appeared
with the message from his mistress.

"Will you give me a quarter of an hour, gentlemen?" asked Sir Patrick.
"In that time I shall know for certain whether I can go with you or
not."

As a matter of course, the guests decided to wait. The younger men
among them (being Englishmen) naturally occupied their leisure time in
betting. Would Sir Patrick get the better of the domestic crisis? or
would the domestic crisis get the better of Sir Patrick? The domestic
crisis was backed, at two to one, to win.

Punctually at the expiration of the quarter of an hour, Sir Patrick
reappeared. The domestic crisis had betrayed the blind confidence which
youth and inexperience had placed in it. Sir Patrick had won the day.

"Things are settled and quiet, gentlemen; and I am able to accompany
you," he said. "There are two ways to the shooting-cottage. One--the
longest--passes by the inn at Craig Fernie. I am compelled to ask you
to go with me by that way. While you push on to the cottage, I must drop
behind, and say a word to a person who is staying at the inn."

He had quieted Lady Lundie--he had even quieted Blanche. But it was
evidently on the condition that he was to go to Craig Fernie in their
places, and to see Anne Silvester himself. Without a word more
of explanation he mounted his horse, and led the way out. The
shooting-party left Windygates.

SECOND SCENE.--THE INN.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

ANNE.

"YE'LL just permit me to remind ye again, young leddy, that the hottle's
full--exceptin' only this settin'-room, and the bedchamber yonder
belonging to it."

So spoke "Mistress Inchbare," landlady of the Craig Fernie Inn, to Anne
Silvester, standing in the parlor, purse in hand, and offering the price
of the two rooms before she claimed permission to occupy them.

The time of the afternoon was about the time when Geoffrey Delamayn had
started in the train, on his journey to London. About the time also,
when Arnold Brinkworth had crossed the moor, and was mounting the first
rising ground which led to the inn.

Mistress Inchbare was tall and thin, and decent and dry. Mistress
Inchbare's unlovable hair clung fast round her hea