The messenger, it may be remarked, not being supposed, technically, to know any official secrets, knew more than most of his superiors.
"Oh, it isn't that, it's a thousand times worse than that! I'm such an infernal fool! John, I've had those instructions in my possession."
"You have!" cried the messenger, much excited.
"Yes. Had them for three days in the inside pocket of my dress-suit, and being the greatest idiot in the diplomatic service, I never even suspected what they were, and gave them back to the man who wrote them."
"What, Riddle?"
Stanley groaned, and bowed his head.
"Dear, dear," said John, gravely, "I'm afraid it's a bad business, sir." And noticing that the Secretary was absorbed in his own woes, he judged it a favourable opportunity to replenish his glass, which he thoughtfully consumed, while the unfortunate diplomat poured out to the old messenger, who was distinctly the deus ex machina of his Legation, and who had helped him out of many a tight place in the past, the story of the letter. How he had received it, how he had been induced to give it up, and finally how it reached its present destination.
"Well," he said despairingly, in conclusion, "what do you think, John?"
"Hit's hall the woman, sir. Take my word for hit, hit's hall the woman," replied that functionary, with dignity.
"What, Miss Fitzgerald?"