At that critical moment Mrs. Inchbare reappeared, with the choicest
selection of wearing apparel which her wardrobe could furnish. Anne
hailed the welcome interruption. She took the candles, and led the way
into the bedroom immediately.

"Change your wet clothes first," she said. "We can talk after that."

The bedroom door had hardly been closed a minute before there was a tap
at it. Signing to Mrs. Inchbare not to interrupt the services she was
rendering to Blanche, Anne passed quickly into the sitting-room, and
closed the door behind her. To her infinite relief, she only found
herself face to face with the discreet Mr. Bishopriggs.

"What do you want?" she asked.

The eye of Mr. Bishopriggs announced, by a wink, that his mission was of
a confidential nature. The hand of Mr. Bishopriggs wavered; the breath
of Mr. Bishopriggs exhaled a spirituous fume. He slowly produced a slip
of paper, with some lines of writing on it.

"From ye ken who," he explained, jocosely. "A bit love-letter, I trow,
from him that's dear to ye. Eh! he's an awfu' reprobate is him that's
dear to ye. Miss, in the bedchamber there, will nae doot be the one he's
jilted for _you?_ I see it all--ye can't blind Me--I ha' been a frail
person my ain self, in my time. Hech! he's safe and sound, is the
reprobate. I ha' lookit after a' his little creature-comforts--I'm joost
a fether to him, as well as a fether to you. Trust Bishopriggs--when
puir human nature wants a bit pat on the back, trust Bishopriggs."