"I reckon poppa and the viscount would give something to know that, too," said Chrysie, as they turned into a confectioner's. They ordered ices, and Chrysie took the telegram form out of her satchel and unfolded it gingerly. Her pretty brows puckered over it for a few moments, as she slanted it this way and that to get the light on it. Then she put her elbows on the little marble table, and said in a low tone:
"It's in French, and it tells the Count that the Nadine starts this evening instead of to-morrow morning. The last word is 'Dépêchez,' and that's French for 'Make haste,' isn't it? Now, do you think I was right in doing a very improper thing—which, of course, it was?"
"I'm afraid you were, Chrysie," said Lady Olive. "It's certainly very mysterious. How is the telegram signed?"
"There isn't any signature," replied Chrysie. "Our friend's a bit too cute for that."
"What on earth do you mean, Chrysie?" said Lady Olive, with a note of alarm in her voice. "What friend?"
Chrysie looked up and said, with a snap of her eyes: "What other friend than M'am'selle Felice's mistress—the noble Adelaide de Condé?"
Lady Olive started. To her straightforward English sense of honour it seemed impossible that a woman so gently bred as Adelaide de Condé could accept her father's hospitality, and yet send such a message as this to those who might before long be the enemies of his country.
"Chrysie," she said, "I could not believe that for a moment. It is utterly incredible that the marquise could be guilty of anything of the sort. I admit that it is very suspicious that the Vlodoya should be at Cherbourg instead of on her way to the Baltic, and that Adelaide's maid should send such a message; but it seems to me much more likely that Felice is in the pay of these Russians, and that her mistress knows nothing about it."
"Well," said Chrysie, rising, "we shall see. Now I guess we'd better be getting down on board. I shall give this to the viscount, and he can have a council of war on it."
"The viscount!" smiled Lady Olive, as they went out into the street. "How very formal we are, Chrysie. Why don't you call him Shafto?"