The servant went on this errand.
The master turned again to his friend.
“Here, Francis,” he said, gravely, as he handed the letter he had written; “I wish you, in case of my death, to deliver this letter to its address.”
“Oh, nonsense. There is going to be nothing so solemn. You may be wounded slightly, and as you are a good marksman you may wound Prince Ernest seriously. That will be all,” said Mr. Tredegar. But his voice trembled as he spoke, and his hand shook as he took charge of the letter.
“Why, good Heaven, Alick! this is directed to Mrs. Alexander Lyon, Morley House, Trafalgar Square,” said Tredegar, in unbounded astonishment, as he read the address.
“Yes, that is what she calls herself,” said Alexander, grimly.
“And so it is the lovely widow, after all, who is the cause of this hostile meeting?”
“I told you that no widow had anything to do with it. She is not a widow, Tredegar.”
“Not a widow! and just now you hinted that she was not Mrs. Lyon. Who is she, then, Alick?”
“She is Lady Killcrichtoun—she is my wife, Tredegar.”