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to contain it!" Mr. Stafford's eyes were riveted to the paper, and there was a long pause, a pause on his part of dismay and consternation. He could scarcely--to repeat a common phrase--believe his eyes. "It seems," he muttered at length, "it seems fairly accurate--a tolerably precise account, indeed." "It is a verbatim copy," said the secretary drily. "The question is, who furnished it. Lord Pilgrimstone, I am authorized to say, has not permitted his note of the agreement to pass out of his possession--even up to the present moment." "And so he concludes," the Minister said thoughtfully--"it is a fair inference enough, perhaps--that the Times must have procured its information from my note?" "No!" the secretary objected sharply and forcibly. "It is not a matter of inference, Mr. Stafford. I am directed to say that. I have inquired, early as it is, at the Times office, and learned that the copy printed came directly from the hands of your messenger." "Of my messenger!" Mr. Stafford cried, thunderstruck. "You are sure of that?" "I am sure that the sub-editor says so." And again there was silence. "This must be looked into," said Mr. Stafford at length, controlling himself by an effort. "For the present, I agree with Lord Pilgrimstone, that it alters the position--and perhaps finally." "Lord Pilgrimstone will be damaged in the eyes of a large section of his supporters--seriously damaged," said Mr. Scratchley, shaking his head, and frowning. "Possibly. From every point of view the thing is to be deplored. But I will call on Lord Pilgrimstone," continued the Minister, "after lunch. Will you tell him so?" A curious embarrassment showed itself in the secretary's manner. He twisted his hat in his hands, and looked suddenly sick and sad-- as if he were about to join in the groan at a prayer-meeting. "Lord Pilgrimstone," he said, in a voice he vainly strove to render commonplace, "is going to Sandown Spring Meeting to-day." The tone was really so lugubrious--to say nothing of a shake of the head with which he could not help accompanying the statement--that a faint smile played on Mr. Stafford's lip. "Then I must take the next possible opportunity. I will see him to-morrow." Mr. Scratchley assented to that, and bowed himself out, after another word or two, looking more gloomy and careworn than usual. The interview had not been altogether to his mind. He wished now that he had spoken more roundly to Mr. Stafford; perhaps even asked for a categorical denial of the charge. But the Minister's manner had overawed him. He had found it impossible to put the question. And then the pitiful degrading confession he had had to make for Lord Pilgrimstone! That had put the coping-stone to his dissatisfaction. "Oh!" sighed Mr. Scratchley, as he stepped into his cab. "Oh, that men so great should stoop to things so little!" It did not occur to him that there is a condition of things even more sad: when little men meddle with great things. Meanwhile Mr. Stafford, left alone, stood at the window deep in unpleasant thoughts, from which the entrance of the butler sent to summon him to breakfast first aroused him. "Stay a moment, Marcus!" he said, turning with a sigh, as the man was leaving the room after doing his errand. "I want to ask you a question. Did you make up the messenger's bag last evening?" "Yes, sir." "Did you notice a letter addressed to the Times office?" The servant had prepared himself to cogitate. But he found it unnecessary. "Yes, sir," he replied smartly, "Two." "Two?" repeated Mr. Stafford, dismay in his tone, though this was just what he had reason to expect. "Yes, sir. There was one I took from the band-box, and one Mr. Atley gave me in the hall at the last moment," explained the butler. "Ha! Thank you, Marcus. Then ask Mr. Atley if he will kindly come to me. No doubt he will be able to tell me what I want to know." The words were commonplace, but the speaker's anxiety was so evident that Marcus when he delivered the message--which he did with all haste--added a word or two of warning. "It is about a