In answer to the summons his man-servant, a smart, tall ex-private of Dragoons, entered.
“A foreign telegraph form, Smayle,” he said.
The man obeyed with military promptitude, and his master a minute later scribbled a few hasty words on the yellow form, securing a berth in the through sleeping-car leaving Paris that night for Rome.
“Take this to the telegraph office in Regent Street,” he said. “I’m leaving this morning, and if anybody calls, tell them I’ve gone to Washington, to Timbuctoo, or to the devil, if you like—anyhow, I shan’t be back for a month. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the man with a smile. “Shall I forward any letters?”
“Yes, Poste Restante, Leghorn.”
At that moment the bell of the outer door rang out sharply, and Smayle went in response, returning a moment later, saying—
“Major Maitland, sir.”
“Show him in,” answered his master in a tone of suppressed excitement.
The man disappeared, and a second later the Major entered jauntily, his silk hat slightly askew, extended his well-gloved hand, greeted his friend profusely with the easy air of a man about town, and sank into one of the comfortable saddle-bag chairs.