Laid up in Lavender. Weyman Stanley John

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.

      "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.

      The statesman turned from the window, and walked to and fro, his agitation betrayed by his step. The third time he passed in front of his secretary-who had riveted his eyes to the Times and appeared to be reading the money article-he stopped. "If this be true-mind I say if, Atlay-" he cried jerkily, "what was Lady Betty's motive? I am in the dark! blindfold! Help me! Tell me what has been passing round me that I have not seen. You would not have my wife-a spy?"

      "No! no! no!" the other cried, as he dropped the paper, his vehemence showing that he felt the pathos of the appeal. "It is not that. Lady Betty is jealous, if I dare venture to judge, of your devotion to the country-and to politics. She sees little of you. You are wrapped up in public affairs and matters of state. She feels herself neglected and-set aside. And-may I say it? – she has been married no more than a year."

      "But she has her society," the Minister objected, compelling himself to speak calmly, "and her cousin, and-many other things."

      "For which she does not care." returned the secretary.

      It was a simple answer, but something in it touched a tender place. Mr. Stafford winced and cast an odd startled look at the speaker. Before he could reply, however-if he intended to reply-a knock came at the door, and Marcus put in his head. "My lady is waiting breakfast, sir," he suggested timidly. What could a poor butler do between an impatient mistress and an obdurate master?

      "I will come," Mr. Stafford said hastily. "I will come at once. For this matter, Atlay," he continued when the door was closed again, "let it rest for the present where it is. I know I can depend upon your" – he paused, seeking a word-"your discretion. One thing is certain, however. There is an end of the arrangement made yesterday. Probably the Queen will send for Templetown. I shall see Lord Pilgrimstone to-morrow, and-that will be the end of it."

      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.

      "He