“Certainly, your Grace.”

“Not only that, Grooton, but the fact that I called here and left a communication for Lord Chelsford is also—­to be forgotten.”

“I quite understand, your Grace,” Grooton assured him.

The Duke struck a match, and a moment or two later we saw him strolling along the cliff side, smoking a cigarette, his hands behind him, prim, carefully dressed, walking with the measured ease of a man seeking an appetite for his dinner.  He was scarcely out of sight, and Lord Chelsford was on the point of descending for his note, when my heart gave a great leap.  Lady Angela emerged from the plantation and crossed the open space in front of the cottage with swift footsteps.  Her hair was streaming in the breeze as though she had been running, but there was not a vestige of colour in her cheeks.  Her eyes, too, were like the eyes of a frightened child.

Lord Chelsford descended the stairs and himself admitted her.

“Why, Angela,” he exclaimed, “you look as though you had seen a ghost.  Is anything the matter?”

“Oh, I am afraid so,” she answered.  “Have you seen my father?”

“Why?” he asked, fingering the note which Grooton had silently laid upon the table.

“Something has happened!” she exclaimed.  “I am sure of it.  Last night he came to me before dinner.  He told me that Blenavon was in trouble.  It was necessary to send him money by a special messenger, by the only person who knew his whereabouts.  He gave me a packet, and he told me that at a quarter-past twelve last night I was to be in my music-room, and directly the stable clock struck that I was to open the window, and some one would be there on the terrace and take the packet.  I did exactly as he told me, and there was someone there; but I had just held out the packet when a third person snatches it away, and held my hand close to his eyes as though to try and guess who I was.  I managed to get it away and close the window, but I think that the wrong person must have taken the packet.  I told my father to-day, and—­you know that terribly still look of his.  I thought that he was never going to speak again.  When I asked him if there was a good deal of money in it—­he only groaned.”

Up on the top of the stairs I was shaking with excitement.  I heard Lord Cheisford speak, and his voice was hoarse.

“Since then,” he asked, “what?”

“A man came to see father.  He drove from Wells.  He looked like a Frenchman, but he gave no name.  He was in the library for an hour.  When he left he walked straight out of the house and drove away again.  I went into the library, and—­you know how strong father is—­he was crouching forward across the table, muttering to himself.  It was like some sort of a fit.  He did not know me when I spoke to him.  Lord Chelsford, what does it all mean?”

“Go on!” he answered.  “Tell me the rest.”

“There is nothing else,” she faltered.  “He got better presently, and he kissed me.  I have never known him to do such a thing before, except at morning or night.  And then he locked himself in the study and wrote.  About an hour afterwards I heard him—­asking everywhere for you.  The servants thought that you had come here.  I saw him crossing the park, so I followed.”