Troubles never come singly; moreover, they come on horseback, and go away on foot.  If Claudius had passed an unpleasant afternoon, the Countess’s day had been darkened with the shadow of a very serious difficulty.  Early in the morning her maid had brought her coffee, and with it a note in a foreign hand.  The maid, who was French, and possessed the usual characteristics of French maids, had exhausted her brain in trying to discover who the sender might be.  But the missive was sealed with wax, and a plain “N” was all the impression.  So she adopted the usual expedient of busying herself in the room, while her mistress opened the note, hoping that some chance exclamation, or even perhaps an answer, might give her curiosity the food it longed for.  But Margaret read and reread the note, and tore it up into very small pieces, thoughtfully; and, as an afterthought, she burned them one by one over a wax taper till nothing was left.  Then she sent her maid away and fell to thinking.  But that did not help her much; and the warm sun stole through the windows, and the noise in the street prevented her from sleeping, for she was unused to the sound of wheels after the long weeks at sea.  And so she rang for her maid again.  The maid came, bringing another note, which, she said, had been given her by “Monsieur Clodiuse;” and would there be an answer?

It was simply a few lines to say he was going to be away all day, and that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing the Countess in Newport to-morrow.  But for some reason or other Margaret was not pleased with the note, and merely said there would be no answer.

“Madame would she dress herself to go out, or to keep the lodging?”

Madame would not go out.  Was it warm?  Oh yes, it was very warm.  In fact it was hebetant.  Would Madame see Monsieur le Duc if he called at eleven?  Monseigneur’s Monsieur Veelees had charged her to inquire of Madame.  No, Madame would not see Monsieur le Duc this morning.  But if any one called, Madame desired to be informed.  Madame would be served.  And so the toilet proceeded.

It was not very long before some one called.  There was a knock at the door of the bedroom.  Clementine left the Countess’s hair, which she was busy combing and tressing, and went to the door.  It was old Vladimir, Margaret’s faithful Russian servant.

“At this hour!” exclaimed the Countess, who was not in the best of tempers.  “What does he want?”

Vladimir ventured to make a remark in Russian, from the door, which produced an immediate effect.  Margaret rose swiftly, overturning her chair and sweeping various small articles from the table in her rapid movement.  She went very quickly to the door, her magnificent black hair all hanging down.  She knew enough Russian to talk to the servant.

“What did you say, Vladimir?”