Pateley sat silent a moment. Then he said-- "It can and does happen occasionally that things are brought to the _Arbiter_ of which I don't know the origin, in fact of which the origin is purposely kept a secret." She waited for him to add something to this sentence, to add a _but_ to it, but he remained silent. Being unversed in diplomatic evasions, she accepted his words as a disclaimer. "But still," she said, "even if you don't know this you could find it out. It matters terribly. I don't want to say to any one else, it is not a thing to be told, how horribly it matters, but I must tell _you_, that you may see. Lord Stamfordham thought that my husband had betrayed the secret--he told him so then. And to-day--it was too terrible!--he was at a luncheon to which Frank and Mr. Wentworth went, not knowing----" A sudden involuntary change in Pateley's face made her stop and say, "But perhaps you were there? Were you at the luncheon?" "No," said Pateley. "I was not there." "But you heard about it?" she said. "Yes," he said after a pause. "I heard about it." "It's too horrible!" said Rachel, covering her face with her hands. "Of course you heard about it--everybody will hear about it: how Lord Stamfordham insulted him and refused to sit down with him, because of the unjust accusation that was brought against him. Now do you see," she said excitedly, and Pateley, as he looked at her, was amazed at the fire that shone from her eyes, at the glow of excitement in her whole being--"now do you see how much it matters? how if we don't find out the truth, if we don't get to know who did it, this is the kind of thing that will happen to him? You see now, don't you? You will help me?" Pateley had got up and restlessly paced to the end of the garden and back, his eyes fixed on the ground, Rachel breathlessly watching him. He was moved at her distress, he felt the stirrings of something like remorse at the fate that had overtaken Rendel. But in Pateley's Juggernaut-like progress through the world he did not, as a rule, stop to see who were the victims that were left gasping by the roadside. As long as the author of the mischief drives on rapidly enough, the evil he has left behind him is not brought home to him so acutely as if he is compelled to stop and bend over the sufferer. But a brief moment of reflection made him pretty clear that neither himself nor the _Arbiter_ had anything to fear from the disclosure. He had nothing particularly heroic in his composition; he would not have felt called upon for the sake of Francis Rendel, or even for the sake of Rendel's wife, to sacrifice his own destiny and possibilities if it had been a question of choosing between his own and theirs; but fortunately this choice would not be thrust upon him. He looked up and met Rachel's eyes fixed upon him. "Yes," he said. "I will help you." "Oh, thank you!" she cried, her heart swelling with relief. "Will you, can you find out about it?"