y. "I know it is a duty."

"I shall certainly not be back till one or two o'clock. They are a very
late lot--the men who go there," he remarked.

"I shall go to bed, so don't hurry, dear."

"Good night, then," he said, crossing to her and bending till he touched
her lips with his. Then he went along to the study, where the King's
Messenger was waiting.

"Halloa, Martin!" exclaimed his lordship, cheerily. "You're up to
time--you always are. You're a marvel of punctuality."

"I have to be, constantly catching trains, as I am," laughed the
nonchalant traveller, as he unlocked his despatch-box and took the seven
big sealed letters from the Foreign Secretary's hand.

Then he scribbled a receipt for them, packed them in a little steel box,
and carefully locked it with the tiny key upon his chain. That box often
contained secrets which, if divulged, would set Europe aflame.

"Don't forget my camera next time you come over," Bracondale urged. "And
tell Sir Henry that if Bartlett is back from Persia I would like him to
run over and report to me."

"I won't forget," was Martin's reply; and then, with a word of farewell,
he took up his precious despatch-box and left the room.

The evening was dark and oppressive, with black clouds threatening
thunder. Those hours passed very slowly.

Jean tried to read, but was unable. Then she went to the big _salon_
and, seating herself at the grand piano, played snatches of Grand Opera.
But she was too anxious, too impatient for midnight to come and end all
the suspense.

Miss Oliver joined her, as usual, about ten o'clock for half an hour's
chat. But the presence of the governess irritated her, and she was glad
when she retired. She wondered whether Enid had told her anything. The
child's chatter had, indeed, been extremely unfortunate.

Eleven o'clock!

She sat in her boudoir trying to occupy her mind by writing a letter,
but she could not. She had to go through the terrible ordeal of seeing
that man again.

At one moment she felt impelled to confess all to Bracondale, yet at the
next she thought of his honour, and of the child. No, at all hazards, at
all costs, even if it cost her her life, she must preserve her secret.

For wealth or for position she cared nothing--only for Bracondale's
love.

The little clock struck the quarter. It wanted fifteen minutes to
midnight.

With knit brows she rose quickly. The whole household had now retired;
all was silence, and she was a