They had barely said those words when Arnold himself appeared, approaching Sir Patrick with a pack of cards in his hand.
There—at the very moment when they had both guessed the truth, without feeling the slightest suspicion of it in their own minds—there stood Discovery, presenting itself unconsciously to eyes incapable of seeing it, in the person of the man who had passed Anne Silvester off as his wife at the Craig Fernie inn! The terrible caprice of Chance, the merciless irony of Circumstance, could go no further than this. The three had their feet on the brink of the precipice at that moment. And two of them were smiling at an odd coincidence; and one of them was shuffling a pack of cards!
“We have done with the Antiquities at last!” said Arnold; “and we are going to play at Whist. Sir Patrick, will you choose a card?”
“Too soon after dinner, my good fellow, for me. Play the first rubber, and then give me another chance. By-the-way,” he added “Miss Silvester has been traced to Kirkandrew. How is it that you never saw her go by?”
“She can’t have gone my way, Sir Patrick, or I must have seen her.”
Having justified himself in those terms, he was recalled to the other end of the room by the whist-party, impatient for the cards which he had in his hand.
“What were we talking of when he interrupted us?” said Sir Patrick to Blanche.
“Of the man, uncle, who was with Miss Silvester at the inn.”
“It’s useless to pursue that inquiry, my dear, with nothing better than Mrs. Inchbare’s description to help us.”
Blanche looked round at the sleeping Geoffrey.