At the house in Belgrave Square at present tenanted by the Baron and Baroness von Blitzenberg, an event of considerable importance had occurred. This was nothing less than the arrival of the Countess of Grillyer upon a visit both of affection and state. So important was she, and so great the attachment of her daughter, that the preparations for her reception would have served for a reigning sovereign. But the Countess had an eye as quick and an appetite for respect as exacting as Queen Elizabeth, and she had no sooner embraced the Baroness and kissed her ceremoniously upon either cheek, than her glance appeared to seek something that she deemed should have been there also.

“And where is Rudolph?” she demanded. “Is he so very busy that he cannot spare a moment even to welcome me?”

The Baroness changed color, but with as easy an air as she could assume she answered that Rudolph had most unfortunately been summoned from England.

“Indeed?” observed the Countess, and the observation was made in a tone that suggested the advisability of a satisfactory explanation.

This paragon among mothers and peeresses was a lady of majestic port, whose ascendant expression and commanding voice were commonly held to typify all that is best in the feudal system; or, in other words, to indicate that her opinions had never been contradicted in her life. When one of these is a firm belief in the holder's divine rights and semi-divine origin, the effect is undoubtedly impressive. And the Countess impressed.

“My dear Alicia,” said she, when they had settled down to tea and confidential talk, “you have not yet told me what has taken Rudolph abroad again so soon.”

On nothing had the Baron laid more stress than on the necessity of maintaining the most profound secrecy respecting his mission. “No, not even to your mozzer most you say. My love, you vill remember?” had been almost his very last words before departing for St. Petersburg. His devoted wife had promised this not once, but many times, while his finger was being shaken at her, and would have scorned herself had she thought it possible to break her vows.

“That is a secret, mamma,” she declared.

Her mother opened her eyes.

“A secret from me, Alicia?”

“Rudolph made me promise.”

“Not to tell your friends—but that hardly was intended to include your mother.”

The Baroness looked uncomfortable.

“I—I'm afraid——” she began, and stopped in hesitation.

“Did he specifically include me?” demanded the Countess in an altered tone.

“I think, mamma, he did,” her daughter faltered.

“Ah!”

And there was a world of meaning in that comment.

“Believe me, mamma, it is something very, very important, or Rudolph would certainly have let me tell you all about it.”

Lady Grillyer opened her eyes still wider.

“Then I am to understand that he wishes to conceal from me anything that he considers of importance?”

“Oh, no! Not that! I only mean that this thing is very secret.”

“Alicia,” pronounced the Countess, “when a man specifically conceals anything from his mother-in-law, you may be quite certain that she ought to be informed of it at once.”

“I—I can't, mamma!”

“A trip to Germany—for it is there, I presume, he has gone—back to the scenes of his bachelorhood, unprotected by the influence of his wife! Do you call that a becoming procedure?”

“But he hasn't gone to Germany.”

“He has no business anywhere else!”

“You forget his diplomatic duties.”

“Ah! He professes to have gone on diplomatic business?”

“Professes, mamma?” exclaimed the poor Baroness. “How can you say such a thing! He certainly has gone on a diplomatic mission!”

“To Paris, no doubt?” suggested Lady Grillyer, with an intonation that made it quite impossible not to contradict her.

“Certainly not! He has gone to Russia.”

The more the Countess learned, the more anxious she appeared to grow.

“To Russia, on a diplomatic mission? This is incredible, Alicia!”

“Why should it be incredible?” demanded Alicia, flushing.

“Because he is a mere tyro in diplomacy. Because there is a German embassy at Petersburg, and they would not send a man from London on a mission—at least, it is most unlikely.”

“It seems to me quite natural,” declared the Baroness.

She was showing more fight than her mother had ever encountered from her before, and the opposition seemed to inflame Lady Grillyer's resentment against the unfilial couple.

“You know nothing about it! What is this mission about?”

“That certainly is a secret,” said Alicia, relieved that there was something left to keep her promise over.

“Has he gone alone?”

“I—I mustn't tell you, mamma.”

Alicia's face betrayed this subterfuge.

“You do not know yourself, Alicia,” said the Countess incisively. “And so you need no longer pretend to be keeping a secret from me. It now becomes our joint business to discover the actual truth. Do not attempt to wrangle with me further! This investigation is necessary for your peace of mind, dear.”

The unfortunate Baroness dropped a silent tear. Her peace of mind had been serenely undisturbed till this moment, and now it was only broken by the thought of her husband's displeasure should he ever learn how she had disobeyed his injunctions. Further investigation was the very last thing to cure it, she said to herself bitterly. She looked piteously at her parent, but there she only saw an expression of concentrated purpose.

“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.”

The Baroness burst into tears.

“My child, my child!” said her mother compassionately. “The world is no Garden of Eden, however much we may all try to make it so.”

“You—you don't se—seem to be trying now, mamma.”

“May Heaven forgive you, my darling,” pronounced the Countess piously.