He read the telegram with half-closed eyes and tightened lips.
“It means that he and Esmeralda have taken a sea voyage.”
“But—but suppose they haven’t? Suppose he has gone alone?” she whispered, fearfully.
He smiled grimly.
“We won’t suppose anything of the kind,” he said. “My dear Lady Wyndover, what is more natural? Trafford and Esmeralda have both been very much upset by the duke’s death. There is nothing in the world so helpful in a bereavement of this kind as complete change of air and scene. Trafford has very wisely taken Esmeralda to what may be called her native air.”
Lady Wyndover gazed at him with a certain doubt mixed with her awe and admiration.
“But it is so sudden—so soon after his father’s death.” She shook her head. “Nobody will believe it.”
He smiled blandly.
“True,” he said. “But I forgot to mention that Trafford received some information respecting some business affairs of Esmeralda’s in Australia, which necessitated their starting for that place immediately.”
He told the fib so coolly, with such an air of truth, that Lady Wyndover herself for a moment almost believed him.