“Hammerton wired from Berlin yesterday, when on the point of leaving,” I observed, taking a telegram from the table before me.
“In cipher?”
“Yes.”
“No accident is reported in the papers, I suppose?”
“Nothing in the Times,” I replied.
“Strange, very strange, that he should be so long overdue,” the Earl said, at last casting himself into his padded chair, and lounging back, his hands thrust deep into his pockets as he stared thoughtfully into space.
I resumed my writing, puzzled at the cause of the chief’s excited demeanour, but a few moments later sharp footsteps sounded outside in the corridor, followed by a loud rapping, and there entered the messenger, clad in his heavy fur-lined travelling coat, although a July morning, and carrying a well-worn leather dispatch-box, which he placed upon my table.
“Late, Hammerton. Very late,” snapped the Earl, glancing at his watch.
“There’s a dense fog in the Channel, your Lordship, and we were compelled to come across dead slow the whole distance. I’ve driven straight from the station,” the Captain answered good-humouredly, looking so spruce and well-groomed that few would credit he had been travelling for nearly twenty-four hours.
“Go and rest. You must return to-night,” his Lordship said testily.