“How came he to do that?”
“I suggested it. The letter was so short I felt ashamed to deliver it as it stood. I told him to put the time—so as to show her that he was obliged to write in a hurry. He put the time when the train started; and (I think) the time when the letter was written as well.”
“And you delivered that letter to Miss Silvester, with your own hand, as soon as you saw her at the inn?”
“I did.”
Sir Patrick made a third note, and pushed the paper away from him with an air of supreme satisfaction.
“I always suspected that lost letter to be an important document,” he said—“or Bishopriggs would never have stolen it. We must get possession of it, Arnold, at any sacrifice. The first thing to be done (exactly as I anticipated), is to write to the Glasgow lawyer, and find Miss Silvester.”
“Wait a little!” cried a voice at the veranda. “Don’t forget that I have come back from Baden to help you!”
Sir Patrick and Arnold both looked up. This time Blanche had heard the last words that had passed between them. She sat down at the table by Sir Patrick’s side, and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder.
“You are quite right, uncle,” she said. “I am suffering this morning from the malady of having nothing to do. Are you going to write to Anne? Don’t. Let me write instead.”
Sir Patrick declined to resign the pen.