Stafford found Pottinger giving the last loving touches with a silk handkerchief to Adonis.  His coat and waistcoat were off, his shirt open at the neck and his sleeves turned up.  He touched his forehead with a respectful and welcoming greeting, and without any surprise; for Stafford very often paid an early visit to the stable, and had more than once lent a hand in grooming a favourite horse.

“Looks well, sir, don’t he?” said Pottinger, passing a hand over the glossy black and finishing up with a loving smack.  “I’m rather late this morning, sir.”  He smiled and looked a little sheepish.  “We had a little bit of jollification in the servants’ hall, on our own account, sir, and were enjoying ourselves like our betters.”

“That’s right,” said Stafford.  Something in his voice caused Pottinger to glance at him with surprise and apprehension; but, of course, he could not say anything, and he dropped his eyes respectfully after the one glance at Stafford’s haggard face.

“I want you take a letter for me this morning, Pottinger,” said Stafford.  “You can take Adonis; it will exercise him, as I shall not ride him to-day.  Here is the letter.  Heron Hall lies on the other side of the river.  I want the letter taken there early this morning.”

Pottinger touched his forehead.  “I know the Hall, sir; I’ve ridden over there with messages from the housekeeper and from Mr. Davis.”

“There will be no answer,” said Stafford.  “Simply leave it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Pottinger.  “Would you mind putting it in my saddle-wallet, sir?  I won’t touch it till my hands are clean.”

Stafford put the letter in the wallet, said a few words to Adonis and some of the other horses, and then left the stable.  He heard voices on the terrace, and, to avoid meeting anyone until he was compelled, he went down the slope of the lawn, and, seating himself on a bank, lit a cigarette.

From her window, Maude Falconer, now attired in a simple but exquisitely effective morning frock, could see him.  After watching him for a minute or two, she went to her writing-table and wrote two or three notes quickly, and, with these in her pocket, went down-stairs and through the hall to the stable court-yard.  Pottinger was still finishing off Adonis, and he drew himself up and saluted as she entered the stables.  As a rule her manner to the servants and her inferiors was cold and haughty, but, as Stafford had discovered last night, she could be soft and gentle when she chose, and she smiled now at Pottinger and the horse in a fashion that almost dazzled that ingenuous youth.  At the same time her eye had noted Pottinger’s coat and waistcoat which hung on a hook at the stall-post with the saddle-wallet slung over them.  The coat was an old one with gaping pockets, and there was no sign of a letter in them, or in the waistcoat.  Instinctively, she knew that it was in the wallet.

“What splendid condition that horse is in, Pottinger,” she said.  “His coat is like satin.  I suppose you were in the army?”