Robert heard it calmly. “I really do not know whether to congratulate you or not,” he said, with meaning. “At all events, you may congratulate Ada.” “Probably. Do you stay here much longer?” “I go at the end of the week, the day after to-morrow.” “So soon?” “Yes, Knightswell must not be left empty.” They gazed at each other without definite expression. CHAPTER III. I shall be home on Saturday,” wrote Isabel, at the close of a letter addressed to Wood End. “I am writing to Mr. Vissian, to ask him to come and see me before his afternoon service on Sunday, as I want to speak with him of several things. Will _you_ come at three? He will leave shortly after, and you--perhaps will not care to stay?” She said nothing of the event which had hurried her return, neither did she mention it in her letter to the rector. Mr. Vissian called at the cottage on Friday. “I have a message for you from Mrs. Clarendon,” he said. “She is returning, and will be glad to see you any time after three on Sunday. I shall be at the house between two and three myself--have to go specially--your audience will succeed mine.” Kingcote smiled as he promised to obey the summons. “We shall see you to-morrow as usual,” said Mr. Vissian, in going. “I _believe_ I have got hold of something that will startle you. Nothing, nothing; merely the solution of a crux which has defied every Shakspearian critic hitherto. Don’t be too excited about it; it may prove a mare’s nest; _but_”----the rector half closed his eyes and nodded twice--“we shall see.” He went off in his usual high spirits. Sundry Christmas bills had just reduced him to penury, but that was a care he did not allow to weigh upon him, for all that his black suit of daily wear cried shame upon him at the elbows--yet weaker points were happily concealed by pendent cloth. Had he not on his shelves the last year’s publications of the Early English Text Society, bound in halfcalf extra? To his infinite annoyance, he waited in vain for Kingcote on Saturday evening. The discovery at which he had hinted, had become overnight a certainty; he was convinced that he had explained “the Lady of the Strachy!” (See, _loc. cit_., the critical edition of _Twelfth Night_, which Mr. Vissian subsequently put forth--a work deserving more attention at the hands of Shakspearian scholars than it has received.) “_What_ can ail the man?” he exclaimed impatiently, as he kept coming forth from his study to Mrs. Vissian. “He never failed us before. If he only knew what I’ve got for him!” But Kingcote did not appear, and Mr. Vissian only saw him on the morrow in Mrs. Clarendon’s drawing-room. Kingcote came in with a grave look, and shook hands with Isabel in silence. “I hope you have come back quite restored,” he said, rather awkwardly, when it became incumbent upon him to speak. He was not good at acting. “Why did you fail me last night?” inquired Mr. Vissian. “I am very sorry. I was not well,” was the brief reply.