"I want to know something, Blanche. Will you tell me?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"Who are the gentlemen staying in the house?"

Blanche looked round at her again, in sudden astonishment and alarm.
A vague fear seized her that Anne's mind had given way under the heavy
weight of trouble laid on it. Anne persisted in pressing her strange
request.

"Run over their names, Blanche. I have a reason for wishing to know who
the gentlemen are who are staying in the house."

Blanche repeated the names of Lady Lundie's guests, leaving to the last
the guests who had arrived last.

"Two more came back this morning," she went on. "Arnold Brinkworth and
that hateful friend of his, Mr. Delamayn."

Anne's head sank back once more on the chair. She had found her way
without exciting suspicion of the truth, to the one discovery which she
had come to Windygates to make. He was in Scotland again, and he had
only arrived from London that morning. There was barely time for him to
have communicated with Craig Fernie before she left the inn--he, too,
who hated letter-writing! The circumstances were all in his favor: there
was no reason, there was really and truly no reason, so far, to believe
that he had deserted her. The heart of the unhappy woman bounded in
her bosom, under the first ray of hope that had warmed it for four days
past. Under that sudden revulsion of feeling, her weakened frame shook