It was with such bitter thoughts he resolved to return to London. He went to the telegraph office and sent a long message to Sam Statham, explanatory of what had occurred, and beseeching his intervention with Cunnington.
Through the night he waited, but received no response.
Then he went round in the morning to bid Sir Charles adieu.
“Well, Rolfe!” exclaimed the representative of the British Government; “I’m sorry you’re off so quickly. My wife was asking you to dine to-morrow night—usual weekly dinner, you know.”
“And have you discovered nothing regarding Petrovitch?” asked Charlie quickly.
“Well,” replied the diplomat, after a moment’s hesitation, “to tell the truth, I have.”
“You have!” gasped the young man eagerly. “What?” The other knit his brows, and was for a moment silent.
“Something—something!” he said, “that is astounding. I—I cannot give it credence. It is all too amazing—too tragic—too utterly incomprehensible.”