“That will do, Thompson. I will ring.”
The old butler glanced at his master uneasily, but obeyed, and then Lord Henry, with palsied hand, held the sham telegram to the lamp and read once more:
“From Smith, West Strand.
“To Lord Henry Moorpark,
“300, Saint James’s Square.
“If you care for your honour, follow her ladyship. She has gone to keep an appointment at Channel Hotel.”
He crushed the paper in his hand, and caught at the table for support.
Then he recovered, and drew himself up proudly.
“It is a lie—a scandal!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “The dog who could send that slur against my wife deserves to be hung!”
He tottered slightly at first as he walked, but he kept pulling himself together, twitching his head and crushing the paper more tightly in his hand, as he went slowly towards the door.
He would not hurry, he was too proud and full of trust and belief in Marie for that; and thrusting the telegram into his pocket, he, in his usual leisurely way, touched the bell for the dessert to be cleared away, threw open the door, and gave his customary cough as he crossed the hall before mounting the handsome staircase, step by step, where Marie had turned when she left him a short time before.
The old man held his head up more and more erect as he went on, and when the butler came from below in answer to the bell, he noted that his lordship was humming in a low voice a snatch of an air that was often played in the square by the organs.
He was too chivalrous to believe the message, and in the calmest manner possible he placed his hand upon the door-knob, turned it, entered the softly-lit drawing-room, closed the door in his usual gentle way, and crossed towards Marie’s chair, where she would be seated by the steaming urn, with Ruth reading aloud as was her wont.