ought, the following
lines resulted:

'My brother has told me of a conversation he held with you this
morning. He says you admit the authorship of an article which seems
quite inconsistent with what you have professed in our talks. How am I
to understand this contradiction? I beg that you will write to me at
once. I shall anxiously await your reply.'

This, with her signature, was all. Having enclosed the note in an
envelope, she left it on her table and went down to the library, where
Buckland was sitting alone in gloomy reverie. Mrs. Warricombe had told
him of Sidwell's incredible purpose. Recognising his sister's
independence, and feeling sure that if she saw Peak it could only be to
take final leave of him, he had decided to say no more. To London he
must perforce return this afternoon, but he had done his duty
satisfactorily, and just in time. It was plain that things had gone far
between Peak and Sidwell; the latter's behaviour avowed it. But danger
there could be none, with 'The New Sophistry' staring her in the eyes.
Let her see the fellow, by all means. His evasions and hair-splittings
would complete her deliverance.

'There's a train at 1.53,' Buckland remarked, rising, 'and I shall
catch it if I start now. I can't stay for the discomfort of luncheon.
You remain here till to-morrow, I understand?'

'Yes.'

'It's a pity you are angry with me. It seems to me I have done you a
kindness.'

'I am not angry with you, Buckland,' she replied, gently. 'You have
done what you were plainly obliged to do.'

'That's a sensible way of putting it. Let us say goodbye with
friendliness then.'

Sidwell gave her hand, and tried to smile. With a look of pained
affection, Buckland went silently away.

Shortly after, Sidwell fetched her note from upstairs, and gave it to
the housekeeper to be delivered by hand as soon as possible. Mrs
Warricombe remained invisible, and Sidwell went back to the library,
where she sat with _The Critical_ open before her at Godwin's essay.

Hours went by; she still waited for an answer from Longbrook Street.

At six o'clock she went upstairs and spoke to her mother.

'Shall you come down to dinner?'

'No, Sidwell,' was the cold reply. 'Be so good as to excuse me.

Towards eight, a letter was brought to her; it could only be from
Godwin Peak. With eyes which endeavoured to take in all at once, and
therefore could at first distinguish nothing, she scanned what seemed
to be hurriedly w