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"It is about a letter to the Times, sir, I think. Mr. Stafford seemed a good deal put out," he said, confidentially. "Indeed?" Atley replied. "I will go down." And he started at once. But before he reached the library he met someone. Lady Betty looked out of the breakfast-room, and saw him descending the stairs with the butler behind him. "Where is Mr.
Ca moch nicuitoya in nicuicani ic niquimicpac xochiti in tepilhuan inic niquimapan in can in mac niquinten; niman niquehuaya yectli yacuicatl ic netimalolo in tepilhuan ixpan in tloque in nahuaque, auh in atley y maceuallo.
It was not long before he got some light on the matter. "Come here, Atley," said his employer, the moment he entered the library. "Look at this!" The secretary took the Times, folded back at the important column, and read the letter. Meanwhile the Minister read the secretary. He saw surprise and consternation on his face, but no trace of guilt.
"I will come," said Mr. Stafford hastily. "I will come at once. For this matter, Atley," he continued when the door was closed again, "let it rest for the present where it is. I am aware 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 Templeton.
There was a great oak post-box within reach, and another box for letters which were to be delivered by hand, and he was thrusting a handful of notes into each of these. Other packets he swept into different drawers of the table. Still standing, he stooped and signed his name to half a dozen letters, which he left open on the blotting-pad. "Atley will see to these when he is dressed," he murmured.
"Let it!" she retorted, not relenting a whit. " I wish it would; I wish the dogs joy of it!" He made an extraordinary effort at diffuseness. "I thought," he said, "that you were becoming political, Betty. Going to write something, and all that." "Rubbish! But here is Mr. Atley. Mr. Atley, will you have a cup of tea," she continued, speaking to the newcomer. "There will be some here presently.
Stafford looked at him fixedly. "Come," he said, "this is a grave matter, Atley. You noticed, I can see, the handwriting. Was it Sir Horace's?" "No," replied the secretary. "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 so say for certain." "Lady Betty's?" Mr.
He was standing aside with a shade on his face, and there were rumors that he would take a long holiday. A week saw all these things happen. And then, one day as Atley sat writing in the library Mr. Stafford being out Lady Betty came into the room for something. Rising to find her what she wanted, he was holding the door open for her to pass out, when she paused. "Shut the door, Mr.
Atley," 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 little creature than she looked then had seldom tempted man. "Mr. Stafford's resignation had it anything, Mr. Atley, to do with " her face colored a very little "something that was in the Times this day week?"
Had she his wife done this thing so compromising to his honor, so mischievous to the country, so mad, reckless, wicked? Impossible. It was impossible. And yet and yet Atley was a man to be trusted, a gentleman, his own relation! And Atley's eye was not likely to be deceived in a matter of handwriting. That Atley had made up his mind he could see.
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