Then, as the door closed behind her, and she heard the retreating sound of the dogcart, she drew herself upright, and, pressing her hand to her forehead, she thought intently.
“A wrong step now, a false move, and—and I lose him!” she murmured. “Oh, if I were there with him; if I could be sure that Spenser Churchill had got her out of the way! Ah!”
The ejaculation was forced from her lips by an idea worthy of a woman. Without waiting a moment she sprang up the staircase to her own room.
“Find the next train to this,” she said to her astonished maid. “Don’t stand staring! There may not be a moment to lose. Pack a bag—a small bag—and order a brougham. Say nothing to anybody but the groom of the chambers, and tell him to keep his tongue quiet—give him this!” She handed her a couple of sovereigns. “Wait! I want this to go to the telegraph office. Stay! No! I will take it myself as I go!”
“The office is closed, my lady,” said the maid, looking up from the portmanteau she had already commenced to pack.
Lady Grace’s face fell, then it cleared again.
“Of course! All offices are closed by this time; none will be open till to-morrow! No matter. Give me a telegraph form.”
She sat down and wrote quickly:
He will be at the Orion packet office the first thing to-morrow. Act. Meet me at the square at ten.
Two hours later she was seated in the train following that which had borne Lord Cecil to London, and her telegram lay at the office to be forwarded to Mr. Spenser Churchill at eight the next morning.