FullReads

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 lip. “Then I must take the next possible opportunity. I will see him to-morrow.”

Mr. Scratchley assented to that, and bowed himself out, after another word or two, looking more gloomy and careworn than usual. The interview had not been altogether to his mind. He wished now that he had spoken more roundly to Mr. Stafford; perhaps even asked for a categorical denial of the charge. But the Minister’s manner had overawed him. He had found it impossible to put the question. And then the pitiful degrading confession he had had to make for Lord Pilgrimstone! That had put the coping-stone to his dissatisfaction.

“Oh!” sighed Mr. Scratchley, as he stepped into his cab. “Oh, that men so great should stoop to things so little!”

It did not occur to him that there is a condition of things even more sad: when little men meddle with great things.

Meanwhile Mr. Stafford, left alone, stood at the window deep in unpleasant thoughts, from which the entrance of the butler sent to summon him to breakfast first aroused him. “Stay a moment, Marcus!” he said, turning with a sigh, as the man was leaving the room after doing his errand. “I want to ask you a question. Did you make up the messenger’s bag last evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you notice a letter addressed to the Times office?”

The servant had prepared himself to cogitate. But he found it unnecessary. “Yes, sir,” he replied smartly, “Two.”

“Two?” repeated Mr. Stafford, dismay in his tone, though this was just what he had reason to expect.

“Yes, sir. There was one I took from the band-box, and one Mr. Atley gave me in the hall at the last moment,” explained the butler.

“Ha! Thank you, Marcus. Then ask Mr. Atley if he will kindly come to me. No doubt he will be able to tell me what I want to know.”

The words were commonplace, but the speaker’s anxiety was so evident that Marcus when he delivered the message–which he did with all haste–added a word or two of warning. “It is about a letter to the Times, sir, I think. Mr. Stafford seemed a good deal put out,” he said, confidentially.

“Indeed?” Atley replied. “I will go down.” And he started at once. But before he reached the library he met someone. Lady Betty looked out of the breakfast-room, and saw him descending the stairs with the butler behind him.

“Where is Mr. Stafford, Marcus?” she asked impatiently, as she stood with her hand on the door. “Good morning, Mr. Atley,” she added, her eyes descending to him. “Where is my husband? The coffee is getting quite cold.”

“He has just sent to ask me to come to him,” Atley answered. “Marcus tells me there is something in the Times which has annoyed him, Lady Betty; I will send him up as quickly as I can.”

But Lady Betty had not stayed to receive this last assurance. She had drawn back and shut the door smartly; yet not so quickly but that the private secretary had seen her change color. “Umph!” he ejaculated to himself–the lady was not much given to blushing as a rule–“I wonder what is wrong with HER this morning. She is not generally rude to me.”

It was not long before he got some light on the matter. “Come here, Atley,” said his employer, the moment he entered the library. “Look at this!”

The secretary took the Times, folded back at the important column, and read the letter. Meanwhile the Minister read the secretary. He saw surprise and consternation on his face, but no trace of guilt. Then he told him what Marcus said about the two letters which had gone the previous evening from the house addressed to the Times office. “One,” he said, “contained the notes of my speech. The other–“