“Annette,” she directed, “we shall go to Melton to-morrow. Wire Haggis to have the Lodge in order, and carriages to meet the midday train. I daresay I shall take a few people down with me. Let George go around to Tattershalls at once and make an appointment for me there at three o’clock this afternoon. Look out my habits and boots, too, Annette.”
Lady Carey leaned back in her chair for a moment with half-closed eyes.
“I think,” she murmured, “that some of us in our youth must have drunk from some poisoned cup, something which turned our blood into quicksilver. I must live, or I must die. I must have excitement every hour, every second, or break down. There are others too—many others. No wonder that that idiot of a man in Harley Street talked to me gravely about my heart. No excitement. A quiet life! Bah! Such wishy-washy coffee and only one cigarette.”
She lit it and stood up on the hearthrug. Her eyes were half closed, every vestige of colour had left her cheeks, her hand was pressed hard to her side. For a few minutes she seemed to struggle for breath. Then with a little lurch as though still giddy, she stooped, and picking up her fallen cigarette, thrust it defiantly between her teeth.
“Not this way,” she muttered. “From a horse’s back if I can with the air rushing by, and the hot joy of it in one’s heart... Only I hope it won’t hurt the poor old gee... Come in, Annette. What a time you’ve been, child.”
******
The Emperor sent for Mr. Sabin. He declined to recognise his incognito.
“Monsieur le Duc,” he said, “if proof of your story were needed it is here. The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer has ignored my summons. He has fled to South America.”
Mr. Sabin bowed.
“A most interesting country,” he murmured, “for the Prince.”