Even when the visitor was gone and the curate was alone he could not return to his manuscript sermon. It was impossible to concentrate his thoughts on the subject.
“Ah, well,” he said at last, “I shall have to take out one of my old Medge sermons for Sunday morning. It will be new to these parishioners at least.” And then he closed his desk, sat back in his armchair and gave himself up to the problem that was disturbing his mind.
The dispatch from the squire lay on the table before him.
The bailiff had inadvertently left it behind him.
Mr. Campbell took it up, again read it carefully, and again passed his hand slowly over his forehead to clear away the thick cloud of confusion.
The situation seemed inexplicable.
There was no doubt that this dispatch, dated this morning, signed Randolph Hay, and announcing the arrival of the squire and of his wife and brother-in-law on this day, was a perfectly genuine article and a very hard fact.
There was no doubt, either, that another Randolph Hay, with his wife and friends, had arrived at Haymore Hall in company with the indubitable traveling companion and eyewitness who had reported the fact to the minister’s family.
Now what on earth did it all mean?
One Squire of Haymore and his wife at Haymore Hall, and another Squire of Haymore and his—lady on their way there!