She went to the desk and wrote as he dictated, and the telegram was dispatched.
“Now,” he said, “I will go and find out what vessel leaves for Melbourne; you must go down to my mother and explain that I can’t come back till to-morrow. You will find her better; but still too ill to hear the truth of this business. Tell her anything you like, but not the truth, please.”
“Yes,” said Lady Wyndover, feverishly.
“Wire to me at my club how she is,” he said. “You will get Trafford’s wire before you go; you can send that on to me. Wait a moment. Is there anything else we can think of? Yes; when Trafford comes send him to his rooms; I will have engaged a berth for him and have his things packed—”
Lady Wyndover caught his hand, and looking up into his face, began to cry.
“Oh, Norman, you—you make me feel so ashamed. But I said—I did say from the first—”
“That’s all right,” he said, pressing her hand and laughing brokenly. “It doesn’t matter about me. Esmeralda—Esmeralda! We’ve got to find her, to catch her before she gets to that place, before the story leaks out!”
He rang the bell and ordered a vehicle, and in ten minutes was being driven to the station.
Lady Wyndover got her things on and waited for the answer to her telegram. It came speedily; for telegrams from people in high place run swiftly.
“Trafford not here. In London. How is Esmeralda?”