Mr. Arden’s horse and his groom were waiting in the stableyard of the “Arden Arms.” He himself, looking more gloomy than usual, had gone upstairs to the best room, to meet the stranger, of whom all the “Arden Arms” people felt vaguely that they had seen him before. The landlady, passing the door, heard their voices raised high now and then, as if there was some quarrel between them; but she was too busy to listen, even had her curiosity carried her so far. When Mrs. Arden, driving past, stopped in front of the inn, to ask for some poor pensioner in the village, the good woman rushed out, garrulous and eager. “The Squire is here, ma’am, with a gentleman. I heard him say as his horse was dead beat, and as he’d have to take the train home. What a good thing as you have come this way! Please now, as they’ve done their talk, will your ladyship step upstairs?” “If Mr. Arden is occupied with some one on business--” said Clare, hesitating; but then it suddenly occurred to her that, as there had been a little domestic jar that morning, it might be well to show herself friendly, and offer to drive her husband home. “You are sure he is not busy?” she said, doubtfully, and went upstairs with somewhat hesitating steps. It was a strange thing for Mrs. Arden to do, but something impelled her unconscious feet, something which the ancients would have called fate, an impulse she could not resist. She knocked softly at the door, but received no reply; and there was no sound of voices within to make her pause. The “business,” whatever it was, must surely be over. Clare opened the door, not without a thrill at her heart, which she could scarcely explain to herself, for she knew of nothing to make this moment or this incident specially important. Her husband sat, with his back to her, at the table, his head buried in his hands; near him, fronting the door, his face very serious, his eyes shining with indignant fire, stood Edgar. Edgar! The sight of him, so unexpected as it was, touched her heart with a quick, unusual movement of warmth and tenderness. She gave a sudden cry, and rushed into the room. Arthur Arden raised his head from his hands at the sound of her voice--he raised himself up, and glanced at her, half-stupefied. “What has brought you here?” he cried, hoarsely. But Clare had no eyes for him, for the moment. She went up to her brother, who stood, scarcely advancing to meet her, with no light of pleasure on his face at the sight of her. They had not met for three years.