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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 Pilgrim-stone’s secretary, entered in 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, Mr. Scratchley?” 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 so jauntily. People said that he was the proper complement of Lord Pilgrimstone, as the more volatile Atley was of his leader.

“And you are aware,” continued Mr. Stafford, still more 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 last disclosure can only be referred to treachery or gross carelessness.’ What does this 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?” he murmured.

“This morning’s? No. But it is here.”

He snatched 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 every street corner I passed,” he added apologetically. “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 contain it!”

Mr. Stafford’s eyes were riveted to the paper, and 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 fairly accurate–a tolerably precise account, indeed.”

“It is a verbatim copy,” said the secretary drily. “The question is, who furnished it. Lord Pilgrimstone, I am authorized to say, has not permitted his note of the agreement to pass out of his possession–even up 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?”

“No!” the secretary objected sharply and forcibly. “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 printed 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.”

And 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,” said Mr. Scratchley, shaking his head, and frowning.

“Possibly. From every point of view the thing is to be deplored. But I will call on Lord Pilgrimstone,” continued the Minister, “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 sick and 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 Sandown Spring Meeting to-day.”