“I am, faithfully yours,
“Hugh Paull.”
“Whether this is too warm, or too cold—whatever it is, it shall go,” he said to himself decidedly, as he rang the bell.
“When did this letter come?” he asked of Jones, who came in response to his summons.
“That, sir? Oh, the princess! The fair, foreign gentleman brought it. He wanted to see you, sir. He came about two.”
“Which gentleman?” asked Hugh—nettled to find that the letter had been recognised.
“The count, sir; not the prince.”
“Send this by a hansom at once,” he directed. “And send round to the stables. I want the brougham directly after dinner.”
He had given this order, spurred by a feeling he had not hitherto known: he wished to conceal his movements from his own servants. Hitherto, they might have known all that he did, and spoke, and thought, for all he cared.
Now, the idea of his patient the princess being commented upon by any one of his household, even by Ralph, was unbearable to him. He had ordered his carriage to elude remark. No sooner had he done so, than he wondered what he should do with it—where he should go.