Arnold was slow to see the connection. His mind was running on Sir Patrick’s discovery. Little dreaming that he was indebted to Mrs. Inchb are’s incomplete description of him for his own escape from detection, he was wondering how it had happened that _he_ had remained unsuspected, while Geoffrey’s position had been (in part at least) revealed to view. “I asked you,” resumed Sir Patrick, attempting to help him, “why the mere report that your friend was likely to marry Mrs. Glenarm roused your indignation, and you hesitated at giving an answer. Do you hesitate still?” “It’s not easy to give an answer, Sir Patrick.” “Let us put it in another way. I assume that your view of the report takes its rise in some knowledge, on your part, of Mr. Delamayn’s private affairs, which the rest of us don’t possess.--Is that conclusion correct?” “Quite correct.” “Is what you know about Mr. Delamayn connected with any thing that you know about Miss Silvester?” If Arnold had felt himself at liberty to answer that question, Sir Patrick’s suspicions would have been aroused, and Sir Patrick’s resolution would have forced a full disclosure from him before he left the house. It was getting on to midnight. The first hour of the wedding-day was at hand, as the Truth made its final effort to struggle into light. The dark Phantoms of Trouble and Terror to come were waiting near them both at that moment. Arnold hesitated again--hesitated painfully. Sir Patrick paused for his answer. The clock in the hall struck the quarter to twelve. “I can’t tell you!” said Arnold. “Is it a secret?” “Yes.” “Committed to your honor?” “Doubly committed to my honor.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that Geoffrey and I have quarreled since he took me into his confidence. I am doubly bound to respect his confidence after that.” “Is the cause of your quarrel a secret also?” “Yes.” Sir Patrick looked Arnold steadily in the face. “I have felt an inveterate distrust of Mr. Delamayn from the first,” he said. “Answer me this. Have you any reason to think--since we first talked about your friend in the summer-house at Windygates--that my opinion of him might have been the right one after all?” “He has bitterly disappointed me,” answered Arnold. “I can say no more.” “You have had very little experience of the world,” proceeded Sir Patrick. “And you have just acknowledged that you have had reason to distrust your experience of your friend. Are you quite sure that you are acting wisely in keeping his secret from _me?_ Are you quite sure that you will not repent the course you are taking to-night?” He laid a marked emphasis on those last words. “Think, Arnold,” he added, kindly. “Think before you answer.” “I feel bound in honor to keep his secret,” said Arnold. “No thinking can alter that.” Sir Patrick rose, and brought the interview to an end. “There is nothing more to be said.” With those words he gave Arnold his hand, and, pressing it cordially, wished him good-night.