" he said. "Some whisper of the
matter may have reached Lady Lundie's ears. It may be a little awkward
to call on her (if she _has_ heard any thing) at the time of a serious
family disaster. You are the best judge of that, however. All I can do
is to throw out the notion. Windygates isn't very far off--and something
might come of it. What do you think?"

Something might come of it! Let it be remembered that Lady Lundie had
been left entirely in the dark--that she had written to Sir Patrick in
a tone which plainly showed that her self-esteem was wounded and her
suspicion roused--and that her first intimation of the serious dilemma
in which Arnold Brinkworth stood was now likely, thanks to Julius
Delamayn, to reach her from the lips of a mere acquaintance. Let this
be remembered; and then let the estimate be formed of what might come of
it--not at Windygates only, but also at Ham Farm!

"What do you think?" asked Julius.

Mrs. Glenarm was enchanted. "The very person to go to!" she said. "If I
am not let in I can easily write--and explain my object as an apology.
Lady Lundie is so right-minded, so sympathetic. If she sees no one
else--I have only to confide my anxieties to her, and I am sure she will
see me. You will lend me a carriage, won't you? I'll go to Windygates
to-morrow."

Julius took his violin off the pi ano.

"Don't think me very troublesome," he said coaxingly. "Between this and
to-morrow we have nothing to do. And it is _such_ music, if you once get
into the swing of it! Would you mind trying again?"

Mrs. Glenarm was willing to do any thing to prove her gratitude, after
the invaluable hint which she had just received. At the second trial the
fair pianist's eye and hand were in perfect harmony. The lovely melody
which the Adagio of Mozart's Fifteenth Sonata has given to violin and
piano flowed smoothly at last--and Julius Delamayn soared to the seventh
heaven of musical delight.

The next day Mrs. Glenarm and Mrs. Delamayn went together to Windygates
House.

TENTH SCENE--THE BEDROOM.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST.

LADY LUNDIE DOES HER DUTY.

THE scene opens on a bedroom--and discloses, in broad daylight, a lady
in bed.

Persons with an irritable sense of propriety, whose self-appointed duty
it is to be always crying out, are warned to pause before they cry out
on this occasion. The lady now presented to view being no less a person
than Lady Lundie herself, it follows, as a matter of co