almost immediately went out. He looked after her, partly because there was something odd in her manner-she kept her face averted; and partly because she was wearing a new and striking gown, and he admired her. He noticed, as she passed through the doorway, that she had some papers held down by her side. But, of course, he thought nothing of this.
He was hopelessly late for his own dinner-party, and only stayed a moment to slip the letters last signed into envelopes prepared for them. Then he made for the door, opened it, and came into collision with Sir Horace, who was strolling in.
"Beg pardon!" said that gentleman, with irritating placidity. "Late for dinner?"
"Rather!" the secretary cried, trying to get round him.
"Well," drawled the other, "which is the hand-box, old fellow?"
"It has been cleared. Here, give it me. The messenger is in the hall now."
Atlay snatched the letter from his companion, the two going into the hall together. Marcus, the butler, a couple of tall footmen, and the messenger were sorting letters at the table. "Here, Marcus," said the secretary, pitching his letter on the slab, "let that go with the others. And is my hansom here?"
In another minute he was speeding one way, and the Staffords in their brougham another; while Sir Horace walked at his leisure down to his club. The Minister and his wife drove in silence; he forgot to ask her what she wanted. And, strange to say, Lady Betty forgot to tell him. At the party she made quite a sensation; never had she seemed more gay, more piquant, more audaciously witty, than she showed herself this evening. There were illustrious personages present, but they paled beside her. The Duke, with whom she was a favorite, laughed at her sallies until he could laugh no more; and even her husband, her very husband, forgot for a time the country and the crisis, and listened, half-proud and half-afraid. But she was not aware of this; she could not see his face where she sat. To all seeming she never looked that way. She was quite a model society wife.
Mr. Stafford himself was an early riser. It was his habit to be up by six; to make his own coffee over a spirit lamp, and then not only to get through much work in his dressing-room, but to take his daily ride before breakfast. On the morning after the Duke's party, however, he lay later than usual; and as there was much business to be done-owing to the crisis-the canter in the park had to be omitted. He was still among his papers-though expecting the breakfast-gong with every minute, when a hansom cab driven at full speed stopped at the door. He glanced up wearily as he heard the doors of the cab flung open with a crash. There had been a time when the stir and bustle of such arrivals had been sweet to him-not so sweet as to some, for he had never been deeply in love with the parade of office; but sweeter than to-day, when they were no more to him than the creaking of the mill to the camel that turns it blindfold and in darkness.
Naturally he was thinking of Lord Pilgrimstone this morning, and guessed, before he opened the note which the servant brought him, who was its writer. But its contents had, nonetheless, an electrical effect upon him. His brow reddened. With a most unusual display of emotion he sprang to his feet, crushing the fragment of paper in his fingers. "Who brought that?" he cried sharply. "Who brought it?" he repeated in a louder tone, before the servant could explain.
The man had never seen him so moved. "Mr. Scratchley, sir," he answered.
"Ha! Then, show him into the library," was the quick reply. And while the servant went to do his bidding, the Minister hastily changed his dressing-gown for a coat, and ran down a private staircase, reaching the room he had mentioned by one door as Mr. Scratchley, Lord Pilgrimstone's secretary, entered it through another.
By that time he had regained his composure, and looked much as usual. Still, when he held up the crumpled note, there was a brusqueness in the gesture which would have surprised his ordinary acquaintances, and did remind Mr. Scratchley of certain "warm nights" in the House.
"You know the contents of this?" he said without prelude, and in a tone which matched his gesture.
The visitor bowed. He was a grave middle-aged man, who seemed oppressed and burdened by the load of cares and responsibilities which his smiling chief carried jauntily. People said that he was the proper complement of Lord Pilgrimstone, as the more volatile Atlay was of his leader.
"And you are aware," continued Mr. Stafford, almost harshly, "that Lord Pilgrimstone gives yesterday's agreement to the winds?"
"I have never seen his lordship so deeply moved," replied the discreet one.
"He says: 'Our former negotiation was ruined by premature talk. But this disclosure can only be referred to treachery or the grossest carelessness.' What does it mean? I know of no disclosure, Mr. Scratchley. I must have an explanation. And you, I presume, are here to give me one."
For a moment the other seemed taken aback. "You have not seen the Times, sir?" he murmured.
"This morning's? No. But it is here."
He took it, as he spoke, from a table at his elbow, and unfolded it. The secretary approached and pointed to the head of a column-the most conspicuous, the column most readily to be found in the paper. "They are crying it at the street corners I passed," he added with deference. "There is nothing to be heard in St. James's Street and Pall Mall but 'Detailed Programme of the Coalition.' The other dailies are striking off second editions to include it!"
Mr. Stafford's eyes were riveted to the paper. There was a long pause, a pause on his part of dismay and consternation. He could scarcely-to repeat a common phrase-believe his eyes. "It seems," he muttered at length, – "it seems accurate-a tolerably precise account, at least."
"It is a verbatim copy," the secretary said dryly. "The question is, who furnished it. Lord Pilgrimstone, I am authorised to say, has not permitted his note of the agreement to pass out of his possession-even to the present moment."
"And so he concludes" – the Minister said thoughtfully-"it is a fair inference enough, perhaps-that the Times must have procured its information from my note?"
With deference the secretary objected. "It is not a matter of inference, Mr. Stafford. I am directed to say that. I have inquired, early as it is, at the Times office, and learned that the copy came directly from the hands of your messenger."
"Of my messenger!" Mr. Stafford cried, thunderstruck. "You are sure of that?"
"I am sure that the sub-editor says so."
Again there was silence. "This must be looked into," said Mr. Stafford at length, controlling himself by an effort. "For the present I agree with Lord Pilgrimstone, that it alters the position-and perhaps finally."
"Lord Pilgrimstone will be damaged in the eyes of a large section of his supporters-seriously damaged," Mr. Scratchley said, shaking his head and frowning.
"Possibly. From every point of view the thing is to be deplored. But I will call on Lord Pilgrimstone," the Minister continued slowly, "after lunch. Will you tell him so?"
A curious embarrassment showed itself in the secretary's manner. He twisted his hat in his hands, and looked suddenly sad-as if he were about to join in the groan at a prayer-meeting.
"Lord Pilgrimstone," he said in a voice he vainly strove to render commonplace, "is going to the Sandown Spring Meeting to-day."
The tone was really so lugubrious-to say nothing of a shake of the head with which he could not help accompanying the statement-that a faint smile played on Mr. Stafford's lips.
"Then I must take the next possible opportunity," he said. "I will see him to-morrow."
Mr.
