"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. Scratchley assented to this, 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 that he had spoken more roundly to Mr. Stafford; 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 confession which he had had to make for Lord Pilgrimstone! That had put the copingstone to his dissatisfaction. "Oh!" the secretary sighed, 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 stood at the window deep in unpleasant thoughts, from which the entrance of the butler, who came to summon him to breakfast, first aroused him. "Stay a moment, Marcus!" he said, turning, as the man prepared to leave 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 prepared himself to cogitate. But he found it unnecessary. "Yes, sir," he replied. "Two." "Two?" Mr. Stafford repeated, dismay in his tone; though this was just what he had reason to expect. "Yes, sir. There was one I took from the hand-box, and one Mr. Atlay gave me in the hall at the last moment," the butler explained. "That will do. Thank you. Ask Mr. Atlay if he will 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 plain that Marcus when he delivered the message--which he did with haste--added a word or two of warning. "It is about a letter to the _Times_, sir, I think. Mr. Stafford seems a good deal put out," he said, confidentially. "Indeed?" Atlay replied. "I will go down." And he started. But before he reached the library he met some one. Lady Betty looked out of the breakfast-room, and saw him descending the stairs with the butler behind him.