"Where is Mr. Stafford, Marcus?" she asked impatiently, as she stood with her hand on the door. "Good morning, Mr. Atlay," she added, her eyes descending to him. "Where is my husband? The coffee is getting cold." "He has requested me to go to him," Atlay 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 his assurance. She had drawn back and shut the door quickly; yet not so quickly but that the private secretary had seen her change colour. "Hallo!" he ejaculated to himself--the lady was not much given to blushing--"I wonder what is wrong with _her_ this morning. She is not generally rude--to me." It was not long before he got light on the matter. "Come here, Atlay," his employer said, the moment he entered the library. "Look at this!" The secretary took the _Times_, and read the important matter. 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 had 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----" "The other----" the secretary replied, thinking while he spoke, "was given to me at the last moment by Sir Horace. I threw it to Marcus in the hall." "Ah!" his chief said, 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 unexpected confusion. "I did," he said. "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, Atlay. You noticed, I can see, the handwriting. Was it Sir Horace's?" "No," the secretary replied. "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--to say that it was hers." "Lady Betty's?" Mr. Stafford repeated the exclamation three times, in 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 his wife's petulant exclamation of yesterday, the foolish desire expressed, as he had supposed in jest. Had she been in earnest? And had she carried out her threat? Had she--his wife--done this thing so compromising to his honour, so mischievous to the country, so mad, reckless, wicked? Impossible. It was impossible. And yet--and yet Atlay was a man to be trusted, a gentleman, his own kinsman! And Atlay's eye was not likely to be deceived in a matter of handwriting. That Atlay had made up his mind he could see.