“Have you any reason, Alicia, to suspect an attachment—­an affair of any kind?”

“Mamma!”

“Do not jump in that excitable manner.  Think quietly.  He has evidently returned to Germany for some purpose which he wishes to conceal from us:  the natural supposition is that a woman is at the bottom of it.”

“Rudolph is incapable——­”

“No man is incapable who is in the full possession of his faculties.  I know them perfectly.”

“But, mamma, I cannot bear to think of such a thing!”

“That is a merely middle-class prejudice.  I can’t imagine where you have picked it up.”

In point of fact, during Alicia’s girlhood Lady Grillyer had always been at the greatest pains to preserve her daughter’s innocent simplicity, as being preeminently a more marketable commodity than precocious worldliness.  But if reminded of this she would probably have retorted that consistency was middle-class also.

“I have no reason to suspect anything of the sort,” the Baroness declared emphatically.

Her mother indulged her with a pitying smile and inquired—­

“What other explanation can you offer?  Among his men friends is there anyone likely to lead him into mischief?”

“None—­at least——­”

“Ah!”

“He promised me he would avoid Mr. Bunker—­I mean Mr. Essington.”

The Countess started.  She had vivid and exceedingly distasteful recollections of Mr. Bunker.

“That man!  Are they still acquainted?”

“Acquainted—­oh yes; but I give Rudolph credit for more sense and more truthfulness than to renew their friendship.”

The Countess pondered with a very grave expression upon her face, while Alicia gently wiped her eyes and ardently wished that her honest Rudolph was here to defend his character and refute these baseless insinuations.  At length her mother said with a brisker air—­

“Ah!  I know exactly what we must do.  I shall make a point of seeing Sir Justin Wallingford tomorrow.”

“Sir Justin Wallingford!”

“If anybody can obtain private information for us he can.  We shall soon learn whether the Baron has been sent to Russia.”

Alicia uttered a cry of protest.  Sir Justin, ex-diplomatist, author of a heavy volume of Victorian reminiscences, and confidant of many public personages, was one of her mother’s oldest friends; but to her he was only one degree less formidable than the Countess, and quite the last person she would have chosen for consultation upon this, or indeed upon any other subject.

“I am not going to intrust my husband’s secrets to him!” she exclaimed.

“I am,” replied the Countess.

“But I won’t allow it!  Rudolph would be——­”

“Rudolph has only himself to blame.  My dear Alicia, you can trust Sir Justin implicitly.  When my child’s happiness is at stake I would consult no one who was not discretion itself.  I am very glad I thought of him.”