Lord Hartledon slipped the bolt of the door and read the letters at once; the foreign one first, over which he seemed to take an instant’s counsel with himself.  Before going down he locked them up in a small ebony cabinet which stood against the wall.  The room was his own exclusively; his wife had nothing to do with it.

Had they been alone he might have observed her coolness to him; but, with guests to entertain, he neither saw nor suspected it.  She sat opposite him at dinner richly dressed, her jewels and smiles alike dazzling:  but the smiles were not turned on him.

“Is that chosen sponsor of yours coming up for the christening; lawyer Carr?” tartly inquired the dowager from her seat, bringing her face and her turban, all scarlet together, to bear on Hartledon.

“He comes up by this evening’s train; will be in London late to-night, if the snow allows him, and stay with us until Sunday night,” replied Val.

“Oh! That’s no doubt the reason why you settled the christening for Saturday:  that your friend might have the benefit of Sunday?”

“Just so, madam.”

And Lady Hartledon knew, by this, that her husband must have read the letters.  “I wonder what he has done with them?” came the mental thought, shadowing forth a dim wish that she could read them too.

In the drawing-room, after dinner, someone proposed a carpet quadrille, but Lord Hartledon seemed averse to it.  In his wife’s present mood, his opposition was, of course, the signal for her approval, and she began pushing the chairs aside with her own hands.  He approached her quietly.

“Maude, do not let them dance to-night.”

“Why not?”

“I have a reason.  My dear, won’t you oblige me in this?”

“Tell me the reason, and perhaps I will; not otherwise.”

“I will tell it you another time.  Trust me, I have a good one.  What is it, Hedges?”

The butler had come up to his master in the unobtrusive manner of a well-trained servant, and was waiting an opportunity to speak.  He said a word in Lord Hartledon’s ear, and Lady Hartledon saw a shiver of surprise run through her husband.  He looked here, looked there, as one perplexed with fear, and finally went out of the room with a calm face, but one that was turning livid.

Lady Hartledon followed in an impulse of curiosity.  She looked after him over the balustrades, and saw him turn into the library below.  Hedges was standing near the drawing-room door.

“Does any one want Lord Hartledon?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know, my lady.  Some gentleman.”

She ran lightly down the stairs, pausing at the foot, as if ashamed of her persistent curiosity.  The well-lighted hall was before her; the dining-room on one side; the library and a small room communicating on the other.  Throwing back her head, as in defiance, she boldly crossed the hall and opened the library door.