“It’s about a friend of mine,” pursued Geoffrey; leading the way toward one of the windows. “He’s in a scrape, my friend is. And I want to ask your advice. It’s strictly private, you know.” There he came to a full stop--and looked to see what impression he had produced, so far. Sir Patrick declined, either by word or gesture, to exhibit the slightest anxiety to hear a word more. “Would you mind taking a turn in the garden?” asked Geoffrey. Sir Patrick pointed to his lame foot. “I have had my allowance of walking this morning,” he said. “Let my infirmity excuse me.” Geoffrey looked about him for a substitute for the garden, and led the way back again toward one of the convenient curtained recesses opening out of the inner wall of the library. “We shall be private enough here,” he said. Sir Patrick made a final effort to escape the proposed conference--an undisguised effort, this time. “Pray forgive me, Mr. Delamayn. Are you quite sure that you apply to the right person, in applying to _me?_” “You’re a Scotch lawyer, ain’t you?” “Certainly.” “And you understand about Scotch marriages--eh?” Sir Patrick’s manner suddenly altered. “Is _that_ the subject you wish to consult me on?” he asked. “It’s not me. It’s my friend.” “Your friend, then?” “Yes. It’s a scrape with a woman. Here in Scotland. My friend don’t know whether he’s married to her or not.” “I am at your service, Mr. Delamayn.” To Geoffrey’s relief--by no means unmixed with surprise--Sir Patrick not only showed no further reluctance to be consulted by him, but actually advanced to meet his wishes, by leading the way to the recess that was nearest to them. The quick brain of the old lawyer had put Geoffrey’s application to him for assistance, and Blanche’s application to him for assistance, together; and had built its own theory on the basis thus obtained. “Do I see a connection between the present position of Blanche’s governess, and the present position of Mr. Delamayn’s ‘friend?’” thought Sir Patrick. “Stranger extremes than _that_ have met me in my experience. Something may come out of this.” The two strangely-assorted companions seated themselves, one on each side of a little table in the recess. Arnold and the other guests had idled out again on to the lawn. The surgeon with his prints, and the ladies with their invitations, were safely absorbed in a distant part of the library. The conference between the two men, so trifling in appearance, so terrible in its destined influence, not over Anne’s future only, but over the future of Arnold and Blanche, was, to all practical purposes, a conference with closed doors. “Now,” said Sir Patrick, “what is the question?” “The question,” said Geoffrey, “is whether my friend is married to her or not?” “Did he mean to marry her?” “No.” “He being a single man, and she being a single woman, at the time? And both in Scotland?” “Yes.” “Very well. Now tell me the circumstances.”