or the ladies in another direction.

The second expedition was as fruitless as the first. Nothing was to be
seen, and nothing was to be heard, of Lady Lundie and Blanche.

Arnold's watch told him that it was not far from the time when Sir
Patrick might be expected to return. In all probability, while he had
been looking for them, the ladies had gone back by some other way to the
house. He entered the rooms on the ground-floor, one after another. They
were all empty. He went up stairs, and knocked at the door of Blanche's
room. There was no answer. He opened the door and looked in. The room
was empty, like the rooms down stairs. But, close to the entrance, there
was a trifling circumstance to attract notice, in the shape of a note
lying on the carpet. He picked it up, and saw that it was addressed to
him in the handwriting of his wife.

He opened it. The note began, without the usual form of address, in
these words:

"I know the abominable secret that you and my uncle have hidden from
me. I know _your_ infamy, and _her_ infamy, and the position in which,
thanks to you and to her, I now stand. Reproaches would be wasted words,
addressed to such a man as you are. I write these lines to tell you that
I have placed myself under my step-mother's protection in London. It
is useless to attempt to follow me. Others will find out whether the
ceremony of marriage which you went through with me is binding on you or
not. For myself, I know enough already. I have gone, never to come back,
and never to let you see me again.--Blanche."

Hurrying headlong down the stairs with but one clear idea in his
mind--the idea of instantly following his wife--Arnold encountered Sir
Patrick, standing by a table in the hall, on which cards and notes left
by visitors were usually placed, with an open letter in his hand. Seeing
in an instant what had happened, he threw one of his arms round Arnold,
and stopped him at the house-door.

"You are a man," he said, firmly. "Bear it like a man."

Arnold's head fell on the shoulder of his kind old friend. He burst into
tears.

Sir Patrick let the irrepressible outbreak of grief have its way. In
those first moments, silence was mercy. He said nothing. The letter
which he had been reading (from Lady Lundie, it is needless to say),
dropped unheeded at his feet.

Arnold lifted his head, and dashed away the tears.

"I am ashamed of myself," he said. "Let me go."

"Wrong, my poor fellow--doubly wrong!"