After lunch the Secretary returned to the Legation and made out his report to his Minister, concerning the treaty. He had looked up the word "parlous" in the dictionary, and found that it meant, "whimsical, tricky,"—a sinister interpretation he felt, when connected with anything diplomatic; moreover the Foreign Office was distressingly uninformed on the subject, another reason for suspicion. Yet, as far as he knew—only the mere formalities of settlement remained, the ratification by vote of his home Government—the exchange of protocols—and behold it was accomplished—much to the credit of his Minister and the satisfaction of all concerned. Doubtless the visit was nothing more than a bit of routine work, and his private affairs seeming for the time more important, he dismissed it from his mind as not worthy of serious consideration and compiled an elaborate report of three pages, not forgetting to mention the arrival of the Chief Clerk's lunch, as matter which might legitimately be used to fill up space. This done, he was about to leave the office in order to meet his appointment with Kent-Lauriston, when John, the genial functionary of the Legation, beamed upon him from the door, presenting him a visiting card, and informing him that a lady was waiting in the ante-room.
"An' she's that 'ansome, sir, it would do your eyes good to see 'er."
The Secretary answered somewhat testily that his eyes were in excellent condition as it was, and that the lady did not deserve to be seen at all for coming so much after office-hours, and delaying him just as he was about to keep an appointment—then his eyes happened to fall on the card and his tone changed at once.
"Madame Darcy!" he exclaimed. "Why, what can have brought her to see me!—John, show the lady in at once, and—say my time is quite at her service."
A glance at his fair chaperon of the night before, as she entered the room, told him that she was in great trouble, and he sprang forward to take both her hands in his, with a warmth of greeting which he would have found it hard to justify, except on an occasion of such evident sorrow.
"Inez—Madame Darcy," he said, leading her to his most comfortable arm-chair—"this is indeed a pleasure—but do not tell me that you are in distress."
"I am in very great trouble."
"Anything that I can do to serve you—I need hardly say," he murmured, and paused, fascinated by this picture of lovely grief.
"I was prompted to come to you," she replied, "by your kindness of last evening, for I knew you had seen and understood, and were still my friend, and also my national representative in a foreign land, to ask your aid for a poor country-woman who is in danger of being deprived of her freedom, if not of her reason."
"But surely you are not speaking of yourself!"