"Will you call here at eight for despatches?"

"Certainly."

"They'll be ready for you. I thought you were in Constantinople."

"Frewen went yesterday. He took my turn. I do the next journey--to
Petersburg--on Friday," he added, speaking as though a journey to that
Russian capital was only equal to that from Piccadilly to Richmond.

"Tell Sir Henry to send somebody else to Russia. I shall, I expect, want
you constantly here for the next three weeks or so. And you have no
objection, I suppose?"

"None," laughed Captain Martin, who for the past eight years had had but
few short spells of leave. The life of a King's Messenger is, indeed, no
sinecure, for constant journeys in the stuffy _wagonlits_ of the
European expresses try the most robust constitution. He was a
cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, and, before entering the Foreign Office,
had held a commission in the Engineers. Easy-going, popular, and a man
of deepest patriotism, he was known in every Embassy in Europe, and to
every sleeping-car conductor on the express routes.

"And, by the way, on the mantelshelf of my room at Downing Street,
Martin, you will find a small stereoscopic camera," added Lord
Bracondale. "I wish you would bring it over next time you come."

"Certainly," Martin replied.

"Then, at eight o'clock to-night. You can leave your despatch-box here,"
his lordship said.

So Martin, a man of polished manners, placed his little box--a steel
one, with a travelling-cover of dark green canvas--upon a side table,
and, wishing the Earl good-morning, withdrew, returning to Havre in the
hired car to shave, wash, and idle until his return to London.

Wherever Bracondale went, the problems of foreign policy followed him.

During the recess members of the House may leave the country and their
cares and constituencies behind them, but to the Minister for Foreign
Affairs, the despatches go daily by messenger or by wire, and wherever
he may be, he must attend to them. International politics brook no
delay.

Upon Bracondale's brow a shadow had fallen since he had scanned
Charlton's letter. More trouble with Germany had arisen.

But he put on a forced smile when, a moment later, he rejoined Jean, who
was now standing in readiness with Miss Oliver and little Enid, the
latter looking very sweet in her tiny Dutch bonnet and a little
Paris-made coat of black and white check and white shoes and socks.

In a few moments they were in the big, open car, and wer