"If all is as General Ziethen supposes," said the Duke, "I will concentrate on my left wing the Corps of the Prince of Orange. I shall then be a portee to fight in conjunction with the Prussian Army."
He gave back Ziethen's despatch and turned away. It was evident to Muffling that he had no more to say, but he detained him for a moment with the question. Where would he concentrate his army? The Duke repeated: ": must wait for advice from Mons."
He spoke in a calm voice, but a little while after Muffling had left the house he showed signs of some inward fret, snapping at Canning for not having immediately understood a trivial order. Canning came away with a rueful face, and enquired of Lord Fitzroy, what had gone wrong.
"No word from Grant," replied Fitzroy. "It's very odd: he's never failed us yet."
"Looks as though the whole thing's nothing but a feint," remarked Fremantle. "Trust Grant to send word if there were anything serious on hand!"
This belief began to spread through the various offices: if Colonel Grant, who was the cleverest intelligence officer the army had ever had, had not communicated with Headquarters, it could only be because he had nothing of sufficient importance te report.
The afternoon wore on, with everyone kept at his post in case of emergency, but a general feeling over all that the affair would turn out to be a false alarm. Previous scares were recalled; someone argued that if Bonaparte had been in Paris on June 10th with the Imperial Guard, it was impossible for him yet to have reached the frontier.
At five o'clock a dragoon arrived from Braine-le-Comte with despatches for Lord Fitzroy. The Duke was in his office with Colonel de Lancey, but be broke off his conversation as Fitzroy came in, and barked out:
"Despatches from Sir George Berkeley, sir, enclosing reports from General Dornberg, Baron Chasse, and Baron van Merlen."
"Dornberg, eh?" His lordship's eye brightened. "Has he heard from Grant?"