th day from the day of Lady Lundie's garden-party, and
it wanted an hour or more of the time at which the luncheon-bell usually
rang.

The guests at Windygates were most of them in the garden, enjoying the
morning sunshine, after a prevalent mist and rain for some days past.
Two gentlemen (exceptions to the general rule) were alone in the
library. They were the two last gentlemen in the would who could
possibly be supposed to have any legitimate motive for meeting each
other in a place of literary seclusion. One was Arnold Brinkworth, and
the other was Geoffrey Delamayn.

They had arrived together at Windygates that morning. Geoffrey had
traveled from London with his brother by the train of the previous
night. Arnold, delayed in getting away at his own time, from his own
property, by ceremonies incidental to his position which were not to be
abridged without giving offense to many worthy people--had caught the
passing train early that morning at the station nearest to him, and had
returned to Lady Lundie's, as he had left Lady Lundie's, in company with
his friend.

After a short preliminary interview with Blanche, Arnold had rejoined
Geoffrey in the safe retirement of the library, to say what was still
left to be said between them on the subject of Anne. Having completed
his report of events at Craig Fernie, he was now naturally waiting to
hear what Geoffrey had to say on his side. To Arnold's astonishment,
Geoffrey coolly turned away to leave the library without uttering a
word.

Arnold stopped him without ceremony.

"Not quite so fast, Geoffrey," he said. "I have an interest in Miss
Silvester's welfare as well as in yours. Now you are back again in
Scotland, what are you going to do?"

If Geoffrey had told the truth, he must have stated his position much as
follows:

He had necessarily decided on deserting Anne when he had decided on
joining his brother on the journey back. But he had advanced no farther
than this. How he was to abandon the woman who had trusted him, without
seeing his own dastardly conduct dragged into the light of day, was more
than he yet knew. A vague idea of at once pacifying and deluding Anne,
by a marriage which should be no marriage at all, had crossed his mind
on the journey. He had asked himself whether a trap of that sort might
not be easily set in a country notorious for the looseness of its
marriage laws--if a man only knew how? And he had thought it likely that
his well-informe