ns. Sir Patrick, who also contemplated returning to Scotland,
remained behind for a week--a solitary prisoner in his own country
house. Accumulated arrears of business, with which it was impossible for
his steward to deal single-handed, obliged him to remain at his estates
in Kent for that time. To a man without a taste for partridge-shooting
the ordeal was a trying one. Sir Patrick got through the day with the
help of his business and his books. In the evening the rector of a
neighboring parish drove over to dinner, and engaged his host at the
noble but obsolete game of Piquet. They arranged to meet at each other's
houses on alternate days. The rector was an admirable player; and Sir
Patrick, though a born Presbyterian, blessed the Church of England from
the bottom of his heart.

Three more days passed. Business at Ham Farm began to draw to an end.
The time for Sir Patrick's journey to Scotland came nearer. The two
partners at Piquet agreed to meet for a final game, on the next night,
at the rector's house. But (let us take comfort in remembering it)
our superiors in Church and State are as completely at the mercy of
circumstances as the humblest and the poorest of us. That last game of
Piquet between the baronet and the parson was never to be played.

On the afternoon of the fourth day Sir Patrick came in from a drive, and
found a letter from Arnold waiting for him, which had been delivered by
the second post.

Judged by externals only, it was a letter of an unusually
perplexing--possibly also of an unusually interesting--kind. Arnold was
one of the last persons in the world whom any of his friends would have
suspected of being a lengthy correspondent. Here, nevertheless, was
a letter from him, of three times the customary bulk and weight--and,
apparently, of more than common importance, in the matter of news,
besides. At the top the envelope was marked "_Immediate._." And at one
side (also underlined) was the ominous word, "_Private._."

"Nothing wrong, I hope?" thought Sir Patrick.

He opened the envelope.

Two inclosures fell out on the table. He looked at them for a moment.
They were the two letters which he had forwarded to Baden. The third
letter remaining in his hand and occupying a double sheet, was from
Arnold himself. Sir Patrick read Arnold's letter first. It was dated
"Baden," and it began as follows:

"My Dear Sir Patrick,--Don't be alarmed, if you can possibly help it. I
am in a terrible mess."