“Yes,” I admitted, smiling. “I did dine at home.”
“Ah, I thought so,” snapped the shrewd old Minister. “A good dinner and your wife’s smiles were of more consequence to you than England’s prestige with the Sultan,—oh?”
I made no answer to this sarcasm, but began busying myself with the correspondence, packing it away in the dispatch-bag and sealing it for delivery to Hammerton, the messenger, who was waiting in an adjoining room ready to take it to Constantinople.
Not until eleven o’clock was I able to get away from Berkeley Square, and leaving the aged statesman alone, deeply immersed in the puzzling applications for advice of all sorts from Her Majesty’s representatives at the various Courts of Europe, I drove back to Phillimore Gardens.
On arrival home my first question of Juckes was whether Ella was in the drawing-room.
“No, sir. Madame is out, sir.”
“Out! When did she go out?”
“About an hour after you had left, sir,” replied the man. “She has gone into the country, I believe.”
“Into the country? What makes you think so?”
“Because she put on her travelling dress, and took two trunks with her,” he answered. “Roberts, her maid, says she packed the boxes herself three days ago.”