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“The other–” replied the secretary, thinking while he spoke, “was given to me at the last moment by Sir Horace. I threw it to Marcus in the hall.”

“Ah!” said his chief, trying very hard to express nothing by the exclamation, but not quite succeeding. “Did you see that that letter was addressed to the editor of the Times?”

The secretary reddened, and betrayed sudden confusion. “I did,” he said hurriedly. “I saw so much of the address as I threw the letter on the slab–though I thought nothing of it at the time.”

Mr. Stafford looked at him fixedly. “Come,” he said, “this is a grave matter, Atley. You noticed, I can see, the handwriting. Was it Sir Horace’s?”

“No,” replied the secretary.

“Whose was it?”

“I think–I think, Mr. Stafford–that it was Lady Betty’s. But I should be sorry, having seen it only for a moment–so say for certain.”

“Lady Betty’s?”

Mr. Stafford repeated the exclamation three times, in pure surprise, in anger, a third time in trembling. In this last stage he walked away to the window, and turning his back on his companion looked out. He recalled at once his wife’s petulant exclamation of yesterday, the foolish desire expressed, as he had supposed in jest. Had she really been in earnest? And had she carried out her threat? Had she–his wife–done this thing so compromising to his honor, so mischievous to the country, so mad, reckless, wicked? Impossible. It was impossible. And yet–and yet Atley was a man to be trusted, a gentleman, his own relation! And Atley’s eye was not likely to be deceived in a matter of handwriting. That Atley had made up his mind he could see.

The statesman turned from the window, and walked to and fro, his agitation betrayed by his step. The third time he passed in front of his secretary–who had riveted his eyes to the Times and appeared to be reading the money article–he stopped. “If this be true–mind I say if, Atley–” he cried, jerkily, “what was my wife’s motive? I am in the dark, blindfolded! Help me! Tell me what has been passing round me that I have not seen. You would not have my wife–a spy?”

“No! no! no!” cried the other, as he dropped the paper, his vehemence and his working features showing that he felt the pathos of the appeal. “It is not that. Lady Betty is jealous, if I may venture to judge, of your devotion to politics. She sees little of you. You are wrapped up in public affairs and matters of state. She feels herself neglected and set aside. And she has been married no more than a year.”

“But she has her society,” objected the Minister, compelling himself to speak calmly, “and her cousin, and–and many other things.”

“For which she does not care,” returned the secretary.

It was a simple answer, but something in it touched a tender place. Mr. Stafford winced and cast a queer startled look at the speaker. Before he could reply, however–if he intended to reply–a knock came at the door and Marcus put in his head. “My lady is waiting breakfast, sir,” he suggested timidly. What could a poor butler do between an impatient mistress and an obdurate master?

“I will come,” said Mr. Stafford hastily. “I will come at once. For this matter, Atley,” he continued when the door was closed again, “let it rest for the present where it is. I am aware I can depend upon your–” he paused, seeking a word–“your discretion. One thing is certain, however. There is an end of the arrangement made yesterday. Probably the Queen will send for Templeton. I shall see Lord Pilgrimstone tomorrow, but probably that will be the end of it.”