, in her white-embroidered
muslin frock, the only trimming upon which was a single dark cerise
rosette at the waist, and wearing a black velvet hat with long black
osprey, stood leaning on the verandah chatting to Bracondale, who, in a
well-worn yachting suit and a Panama hat, smoked a cigarette. They were
awaiting Enid and Miss Oliver, for they had arranged to take the child
down to the sea, and already the car was at the door.

"How delightful it is here!" exclaimed Jean, glancing around at the
garden, bright with flowers, at the blue, cloudless sky, and the glimpse
of distant sea.

"Ah!" he laughed. "You always prefer this place to Bracondale--eh? It
is but natural, because you are among your own people."

At that moment they both heard the noise of an approaching car, and next
moment, as it swept round the drive past the verandah, a good-looking
young man in heavy travelling coat, seated at the back of the car,
raised his soft felt hat to them.

"Halloa!" exclaimed the Earl. "Here's Martin! Left Downing Street last
night. More trouble, I suppose. Excuse me, dearest."

"Yes, but you'll come with us, won't you?"

"Certainly. But I must first see what despatches he has brought," was
the reply. Then his lordship left his wife's side, passed along the
verandah, and into the small study into which Captain Martin, one of His
Majesty's Foreign Service Messengers, had been shown.

"Mornin', Martin!" exclaimed Bracondale, greeting him. "Nice passage
over?"

"Yes, my lord," was the traveller's response. "It was raining hard,
however, in Southampton. A bad day in London yesterday."

And then, unlocking the little, well-worn despatch-box which he carried,
he took out half a dozen bulky packets, each of which bore formidable
seals and was marked "On His Britannic Majesty's Service."

The Foreign Minister sighed. He saw that they represented hours of hard
work. Selecting one of them, which he saw was from Charlton, he opened
it, read it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. The others he put in
a drawer and locked them up.

Then he scribbled his signature upon the receipt which Martin, the
ever-constant traveller, presented to him, and the King's Messenger took
it with a word of thanks.

"When do you go back?" he asked of the trusty messenger, the man who
spent his days, year in and year out, speeding backwards and forwards
across Europe, carrying instructions to the various Embassies.

"To-night, at midnight."