"You mean?" he gulped out, letting go.
"That Milady Blakeney is not the mother of one of her children," said the Frenchwoman, softly. "And that sorrow for having parted with her child has made Madame so miserable as she is now. Follow her, Monsieur. She is worn out from drugged sleep—from remedies full of the cocaine. Follow her swiftly."
"Woman, I think you're mad."
With a groan stifled in his throat Bertie ran down the stairs and hailed a taxi to drive to Grosvenor Square.
The butler was human; distress and gold broke his reserve.
"Her ladyship was out of town. Master Cecil had not been well, and her ladyship and the children were at Trelawney in Devonshire."
Trelawney was the village close to Cliff End.
"Mrs Carteret was here, sir. She got a time-table and looked out the trains; she has left for Devonshire, I fancy. There is a fast train reaching Trelawney at about four, no other now for some time. Mrs Carteret, sir, said she would get a motor, as it would be much quicker."
"You, Carteret!" Cyril Blakeney had driven up in his big car. "What is the matter? You look ill."
"Slander's the matter. Mischief's the matter," Bertie burst out. "A story too strange for credence is the matter."