“Certainly. But I must first see what despatches he has brought,” was the reply. Then his lordship left his wife’s side, passed along the verandah, and into the small study into which Captain Martin, one of His Majesty’s Foreign Service Messengers, had been shown.
“Mornin’, Martin!” exclaimed Bracondale, greeting him. “Nice passage over?”
“Yes, my lord,” was the traveller’s response. “It was raining hard, however, in Southampton. A bad day in London yesterday.”
And then, unlocking the little, well-worn despatch-box which he carried, he took out half a dozen bulky packets, each of which bore formidable seals and was marked “On His Britannic Majesty’s Service.”
The Foreign Minister sighed. He saw that they represented hours of hard work. Selecting one of them, which he saw was from Charlton, he opened it, read it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. The others he put in a drawer and locked them up.
Then he scribbled his signature upon the receipt which Martin, the ever-constant traveller, presented to him, and the King’s Messenger took it with a word of thanks.
“When do you go back?” he asked of the trusty messenger, the man who spent his days, year in and year out, speeding backwards and forwards across Europe, carrying instructions to the various Embassies.
“To-night, at midnight.”
“Will you call here at eight for despatches?”
“Certainly.”