"No, sir. No one's been 'ere to-day, except a foreign-looking gentleman who asked if madame had left, and when I said that she had, he went away quite satisfied." "What kind of man was he?" "Tall and thin, with a longish dark beard." The description did not correspond with anyone of my acquaintance; therefore, after some further questions regarding Mrs Laing's mysterious departure, I was compelled to wish the worthy woman good evening. She knew nothing of Mrs Laing's movements, not even the name of the terminus to which she had driven, such pains had Ella's mother taken to conceal the direction in which she intended to travel. Some secret undoubtedly existed between mother and daughter; its nature held me perplexed and bewildered. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL. The early morning was dry, frosty, but starless. The clock of that fashionable temple of Hymen, St George's, Hanover Square, was slowly chiming three as I alighted from a cab at the corner of Mount Street, and walking along Berkeley Square, ascended the steps of the Earl of Warnham's great mansion, and rang its ponderous bell. The place was severe and gloomy enough by day, but in the silence and darkness of the night its exterior presented a forbidding, almost ghostly appearance. It was an unusual hour for a call, but, knowing that a porter was on duty always, and that dispatches frequently arrived during the night, I had no hesitation in seeking an interview. In a few moments there was a grating sound of bolts drawn back, a clanking of chains, and the heavy door was slowly opened by the sleepy man, who, with a word of recognition, at once admitted me. Walking across the great square hall; warmed by a huge, roaring fire, I passed down the passage to the Earl's study and rapped at the door, receiving an impatient permission to enter. The Minister for Foreign Affairs was sitting at his table where I had left him, with an empty tea-cup at his side, resting his pale, weary brow upon his hand and writing dispatches rapidly with his scratchy quill. His fire was nearly out, the pair of candles, in their heavy, old-fashioned silver candlesticks that stood upon his writing-table, had burned down almost to their sockets, and the strong smell of burnt paper that pervaded the book-lined den, showed that, with his innate cautiousness, he had destroyed documents that he did not desire should be seen by other eyes. The world-renowned statesman raised his head as I entered, gave vent to a low grunt of dissatisfaction, and continued writing at topmost speed. I saw I was unwelcome, but, well acquainted with his mannerisms and eccentricities, walked to the fire, added more fuel, and waited in patience until he had finished. "Well," he snarled, casting down his pen impatiently, and turning upon me at last. "I thought you, of all men, were aware that I do not desire interruption when at work."