Of course as the days went by the sparkle of Paul's joy subsided. An infinite unrest took its place—a continual mad desire for further news. Supposing she were ill, his darling one? Many times a day he read her words; the pencil writing was certainly feeble and shaky—supposing—But he refused to face any terrible picture. The letter had come on the 2d of March; his son had been eleven days old then—two days and a half to Vienna—that brought it to eight when the letter was posted—and from whence had it come there? If he allowed two days more, say—she must have written it only five or six days after the baby's birth.

Paul knew very little about such things, though he understood vaguely that a woman might possibly be very ill even after then. But surely, if so, Anna or Dmitry would have told him on their own initiative. This thought comforted him a little, but still anxiety—like a sleuth-hound—pursued his every moment. He would not leave home—London saw him not even for a day. Some word might come in his absence, some message or summons to go to her, and he would not chance being out of its reach. More than ever all their three weeks of happiness was lived over again—every word she had said had sunk for ever in his memory. And away in his solitary walks, or his rides home from hunting in the dusk of the afternoon, he let them echo in his heart.

But the desire to be near her was growing an obsession.

Some days when a wild gallop had made his blood run, triumphant thoughts of his son would come to him. How he should love to teach him to sit a horse in days to come, to ride to hounds, and shoot, and be an English gentleman. Oh! why was she a Queen, his loved one, and far away—why not here, and his wife, whom he could cover with devotion and honour? Surely that would be enough for them both—a life of trust and love and sweetness; but even if it were not—there was the world to choose from, if only they were together.

The two—Paul and his father—were a silent pair for the most part, as they jogged along the lanes on their way back from hunting.

One afternoon, when this sense of parenthood was strong upon Paul, he went in to tea in his mother's sitting-room. And as he leant upon the mantelpiece, his tall, splendid figure in its scarlet coat outlined against the bright blaze, his eye took in—perhaps for the first time—the immense number of portraits of himself which decorated this apartment—himself in every stage, from infantile days upward, through the toy rocking-horse period to the real dog companion—in Eton collars and Fourth of June hats—in cricketing flannels and Oxford Bullingdon groups—and then not so many, until one taken last year. How young it looked and smiling! There was one particular miniature of him in the holy of holiest positions in the centre of the writing-table—a real work of art, well painted on ivory. It was mounted in a frame of fine pearls, and engraved with the name and date at the back:

"Paul Verdayne—aged five years and three months."

It was a full-length picture of him standing next a great chair, in a blue velvet suit and a lace turn-over collar, while curls of brightest gold fell rippling to his neck—rather short bunchy curls which evidently would not be repressed.

"Was I ever like that, mother?" he said.

And the Lady Henrietta, only too enchanted to expand upon this enthralling subject, launched forth on a full description.

Like it! Of course! Only much more beautiful. No child had ever had such golden curls, or such eyes or eye-lashes! No child had ever, in fact, been able to compare with him in any way, or ever would! The Lady Henrietta's delicate shell-tinted cheeks flushed rose with joy at the recollection.

"Darling mother," said Paul, as he kissed her, "how you loved me. And how cold I have often been. Forgive me—"

Then he was silent while she fondled him in peace, his thoughts turning as ever to his lady. She, too, probably, would be foolish, and tender, and sweet over her son—and how his mother would love her grandchild. Oh! how cruel, how cruel was fate!

Then he asked: "Mother, does it take women a long time to get well when they have children? Ladies, I mean, who are finely nurtured? They generally get well, though, don't they—and it is quite simple—"

And the Lady Henrietta blushed as she answered:

"Oh! yes, quite simple—unless some complications occur. Of course there is always a faint danger, but then it is so well worth it. What a strange thing to ask, though, dear boy! Were you thinking of Cousin Agatha?"

"Cousin Agatha!" said Paul vaguely, and then recollected himself. "Oh, yes, of course—how is she?"

But when he went off to his room to change, his mother's words stayed with him—"unless some complications occur"—and the thought opened a fresh field of anxious wonderment.

At last it all seemed unbearable. A wild idea of rushing off to Vienna came to him—to rush there on the clue of a postmark—but common sense put this aside. It might be the means of just missing some message. No, he must bear things and wait. This silence, perhaps, meant good news—and if by the end of April nothing came, then he should have to break his promise and investigate.

About this time Captain Grigsby again came to stay with them. And the next day, as he and his host smoked their pipes while they walked up and down the sunny terrace, he took occasion to give forth this information:

"I say, Charles—I have located her—have you?"

"No! By Jove!" said Paul's father. "Hubert is away, you know, and I have just let the thing slide—"

"About the end of February did you notice the boy looking at all worried?"

Sir Charles thought a moment.

"Yes—I recollect—d—d worried and restless—and he is again now."

"Ah! I thought so!" said Mark Grigsby, as though he could say a good deal more.

"Well, then—out with it, Grig," Sir Charles said impatiently.

And Captain Grigsby proceeded in his own style to weave together a chain of coincidences which had struck him, until this final certainty. They were a clear set of arguments, and Paul's father was convinced, too.

"You see, Tompson told you in the beginning she was Russian," Captain Grigsby said after talking for some time, "and the rest was easy to find out. We're not here to judge the morals of the affair, Charles; you and I can only be thundering glad your grandson will sit on that throne all right."

He had read in one paper—he proceeded to say—that a most difficult political situation had been avoided by the birth of this child, as there was no possible heir at all, and immense complications would ensue upon the death of the present ruler—the scurrilous rag even gave a rÉsumÉ of this ruler's dissolute life, and a broad hint that the child could in no case be his; but, as they pithily remarked, this added to the little prince's welcome in Ministerial circles, where the lady was greatly beloved and revered, and the King had only been put upon his tottering throne, and kept there, by the fact of being her husband. The paper added, the King had taken the chief part in the rejoicings over the heir, so there was nothing to be said. There were hints also of his mad fits of debauchery and drunkenness, and a suppressed tale of how in one of them he had strangled a keeper, and had often threatened the Queen's life. Her brother, however, was with her now, and would see Russian supremacy was not upset.

"Husband seems a likely character to hobnob with, don't he, Charles? No wonder she turned her eye on Paul, eh?" Mark Grigsby ended with.

But Sir Charles answered not, his thoughts were full of his son.

All the forces of nature and emotion seemed to be drawing him away from peaceful England towards a hornets' nest, and he—his father—would be powerless to prevent it.