Atlay retired, marvelling at his coolness; trying to retrace the short steps of their conversation, and to discern how far the Minister had gone with him, and where he had turned off upon a resolution of his own. He failed to find the clue, however, and marvelled still more as the day went on and others succeeded it; days of political crisis. Out of doors the world, or that small piece of it which has its centre at Westminster, was in confusion. The newspapers, morning or evening, found ready sale, and had no need to rely on murder-panics or prurient discussions. The Coalition scandal, the resignation of Ministers, the sending for Lord This and Mr. That, the certainty of a dissolution, provided matter enough. In all this Atlay found nothing at which to wonder. He had seen it all before. That which did cause him surprise was the calm--the unnatural calm, as it seemed to him--which prevailed in the house in Carlton Terrace. For a day or two, indeed, there was much running to and fro, much closeting and button-holing; for rather longer the secretary read anxiety and apprehension in one countenance--Lady Betty's. Then things settled down. The knocker began to find peace, such comparative peace as falls to knockers in Carlton Terrace. Lady Betty's brow grew clear as her eye found no reflection of its anxiety in Mr. Stafford's face. In a word the secretary looked long but could discern no faintest sign of domestic trouble. The late Minister indeed was taking things with wonderful coolness. Lord Pilgrimstone had failed to taunt him, and the triumph of old foes had failed to goad him into a last effort. Apparently he was of opinion that the country might for a time exist without him. He was standing aside with a shade on his face, and there were rumours that he would take a long holiday. A week saw all these things happen. And then, one day as Atlay sat writing in the library--Mr. Stafford being out--Lady Betty came into the room for something. Rising to supply her with the article she wanted, he held the door open for her to pass out. She paused. "Shut the door, Mr. Atlay," she said, pointing to it. "I want to ask you a question." "Pray do, Lady Betty," he answered. "It is this," she said, meeting his eyes boldly--and a brighter, a more dainty creature than she looked had seldom tempted man. "Mr. Stafford's resignation--had it anything, Mr. Atlay, to do with"--her face coloured a very little--"something that was in the _Times_ this day week?" His own cheek coloured violently enough. "If ever," he was saying to himself, "I meddle or mar between husband and wife again, may I----" But aloud he answered quietly, "Something perhaps." The question was sudden. Her eyes were on his face. He found it impossible to prevaricate. "Something perhaps," he said. "My husband has never spoken to me about it," she replied, breathing quickly. He bowed, having no words adapted to the situation. But he repeated his resolution (as above) more furiously.