The country chÂteau of the Earl of Bracondale, though modestly named the Villa Monplaisir, stood on the road to FÉcamp amid the pines, about half a mile from the sea, at St. Addresse, the new seaside suburb of Havre.

St. Addresse is, perhaps, not so fashionable as Etretat or Yport, being quieter and more restful, yet with excellent sea-bathing. Along the broad plage are numerous summer villas, with quaint gabled roofs and small pointed towers in the French style—houses occupied in the season mostly by wealthy Parisians.

Monplaisir, however, was the largest and most handsome residence in the neighbourhood; and to it, when the British statesman was in residence, came various French Ministers of State, and usually for a few days each year the President of the Republic was his lordship’s guest.

It was a big, modern house, with wide verandahs on each floor, which gave extensive views of country and sea, a house with a high circular slated tower at one end, and many gables with black oaken beams. Around was a plantation of dark pines, protecting the house from the fierce, sweeping winter winds of the Channel, and pretty, sheltered flower-gardens, the whole enclosed with railings of white painted ironwork.

Over the doorway was a handsome semi-circular roof of glass, while from the west end of the house ran a large winter garden, full of palms and exotic flowers.

Before his marriage, Bracondale had been inclined to sell the place, for he went there so very little; but Jean, being French, expressed a wish that it should be kept, as she liked to have a pied-À-terre in her own land. At Montplaisir she always enjoyed herself immensely, and the bathing had always been to little Lady Enid of greatest benefit.

One morning towards the end of September Jean, in her white-embroidered muslin frock, the only trimming upon which was a single dark cerise rosette at the waist, and wearing a black velvet hat with long black osprey, stood leaning on the verandah chatting to Bracondale, who, in a well-worn yachting suit and a Panama hat, smoked a cigarette. They were awaiting Enid and Miss Oliver, for they had arranged to take the child down to the sea, and already the car was at the door.

“How delightful it is here!” exclaimed Jean, glancing around at the garden, bright with flowers, at the blue, cloudless sky, and the glimpse of distant sea.

“Ah!” he laughed. “You always prefer this place to Bracondale—eh? It is but natural, because you are among your own people.”

At that moment they both heard the noise of an approaching car, and next moment, as it swept round the drive past the verandah, a good-looking young man in heavy travelling coat, seated at the back of the car, raised his soft felt hat to them.

“Halloa!” exclaimed the Earl. “Here’s Martin! Left Downing Street last night. More trouble, I suppose. Excuse me, dearest.”

“Yes, but you’ll come with us, won’t you?”

“Certainly. But I must first see what despatches he has brought,” was the reply. Then his lordship left his wife’s side, passed along the verandah, and into the small study into which Captain Martin, one of His Majesty’s Foreign Service Messengers, had been shown.

“Mornin’, Martin!” exclaimed Bracondale, greeting him. “Nice passage over?”

“Yes, my lord,” was the traveller’s response. “It was raining hard, however, in Southampton. A bad day in London yesterday.”

And then, unlocking the little, well-worn despatch-box which he carried, he took out half a dozen bulky packets, each of which bore formidable seals and was marked “On His Britannic Majesty’s Service.”

The Foreign Minister sighed. He saw that they represented hours of hard work. Selecting one of them, which he saw was from Charlton, he opened it, read it carefully, and placed it in his pocket. The others he put in a drawer and locked them up.

Then he scribbled his signature upon the receipt which Martin, the ever-constant traveller, presented to him, and the King’s Messenger took it with a word of thanks.

“When do you go back?” he asked of the trusty messenger, the man who spent his days, year in and year out, speeding backwards and forwards across Europe, carrying instructions to the various Embassies.

“To-night, at midnight.”

“Will you call here at eight for despatches?”

“Certainly.”

“They’ll be ready for you. I thought you were in Constantinople.”

“Frewen went yesterday. He took my turn. I do the next journey—to Petersburg—on Friday,” he added, speaking as though a journey to that Russian capital was only equal to that from Piccadilly to Richmond.

“Tell Sir Henry to send somebody else to Russia. I shall, I expect, want you constantly here for the next three weeks or so. And you have no objection, I suppose?”

“None,” laughed Captain Martin, who for the past eight years had had but few short spells of leave. The life of a King’s Messenger is, indeed, no sinecure, for constant journeys in the stuffy wagonlits of the European expresses try the most robust constitution. He was a cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, and, before entering the Foreign Office, had held a commission in the Engineers. Easy-going, popular, and a man of deepest patriotism, he was known in every Embassy in Europe, and to every sleeping-car conductor on the express routes.

“And, by the way, on the mantelshelf of my room at Downing Street, Martin, you will find a small stereoscopic camera,” added Lord Bracondale. “I wish you would bring it over next time you come.”

“Certainly,” Martin replied.

“Then, at eight o’clock to-night. You can leave your despatch-box here,” his lordship said.

So Martin, a man of polished manners, placed his little box—a steel one, with a travelling-cover of dark green canvas—upon a side table, and, wishing the Earl good-morning, withdrew, returning to Havre in the hired car to shave, wash, and idle until his return to London.

Wherever Bracondale went, the problems of foreign policy followed him.

During the recess members of the House may leave the country and their cares and constituencies behind them, but to the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the despatches go daily by messenger or by wire, and wherever he may be, he must attend to them. International politics brook no delay.

Upon Bracondale’s brow a shadow had fallen since he had scanned Charlton’s letter. More trouble with Germany had arisen.

But he put on a forced smile when, a moment later, he rejoined Jean, who was now standing in readiness with Miss Oliver and little Enid, the latter looking very sweet in her tiny Dutch bonnet and a little Paris-made coat of black and white check and white shoes and socks.

In a few moments they were in the big, open car, and were quickly driven through the pines and out upon the sea-road until, when on the railed esplanade at St. Addresse, the car pulled up suddenly at some steps which led down to the sands.

Just before he did so his lordship, addressing Jean, said:

“I know you will excuse me staying with you this morning, dear, but I must attend to those despatches Martin has brought. And they will certainly take me till luncheon. So I will see you down to the beach and then go back. The car shall come for you at half-past twelve.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Jean, regretfully. “But I know, dear, how worried you are. So I’ll forgive you. I shall spend a quiet morning with a book, and Enid will enjoy herself.”

Then the car stopped, he got out, helped Enid and Miss Oliver down, and then gave his hand to Jean, who, with her dark cloak thrown over her white dress, looked extremely dainty, and much younger than her years.

While the car waited for them, all four descended to the beach, where little Enid with her governess went forward, while Bracondale and his wife walked along to a secluded corner in the rocks, where it was Jean’s habit to read while awaiting her little girl.

Then, after he had seen her comfortably settled in the shadow, for the sun was hot, he lit a cigarette and strolled back to where the car awaited him, absorbed in the international problem which had, according to Charlton, so suddenly arisen.

As he sat in the car and was whirled along the sea-front towards Monplaisir, he passed a clean-shaven, well-dressed man in a dark suit with carefully-ironed trousers, his handkerchief showing from his jacket pocket, patent leather boots, grey spats, and a light grey Tyrolese hat. The stranger gave him a curious, inquisitive glance as he passed, then, looking after him, muttered some words beneath his breath.

The idler stood and watched the car disappear in the dust along the wide, straight road, and then he walked to the steps over which Jean had passed and followed in her footsteps.

As a matter of fact, this was not the first occasion upon which the stranger had watched her ladyship.

On the previous day he had been passing along a street in Havre when a big red car had passed, and in it was her ladyship with little Lady Enid.

In a second, on looking up suddenly, he had recognised her.

But she had not seen him. At the moment she had been bending towards the child, buttoning up her coat.

The stranger, who had only the day previous arrived in Havre, and was awaiting a steamer to America, turned upon his heel and, chancing to meet a postman face to face, pointed out the car and asked in French whose it was.

The veteran, for he wore his medal, glanced at the car and replied:

“Ah! That is the automobile of the English lord. That is the Countess of Bracondale, his wife.”

“Do they live here?”

“At the Villa Monplaisir, m’sieur, out on the road to FÉcamp.”

“Are they rich?” he asked unconcernedly.

“Oh, yes; Lord Bracondale is the English Minister for Foreign Affairs.”

“Bracondale!” echoed the stranger, recognising the name for the first time. “And that is his wife?”

“Yes.”

“And the child?”

“His daughter.”

“Is Lady Bracondale often here, in Havre?” he inquired eagerly.

“Not often. Perhaps once a week in the season. She comes shopping,” replied the grizzled old man, hitching up his box containing his letters.

“Look here, my friend,” exclaimed the stranger. “Tell me something more about that lady.” And he slipped a two-franc piece into the man’s hand.

“Ah! I fear I know but little—only what people say, m’sieur.”

“What do they say?”

“That Madame the Countess, who is French, is a most devoted wife, although she is such a great lady—one of the greatest ladies in England, I believe. I have heard that they have half-a-dozen houses, and are enormously wealthy.”

“Rich—eh?” remarked the inquirer, and his keen, dark eyes sparkled. “You know nothing more?”

“No, m’sieur. But I daresay there are people out at St. Addresse who know much more than I do.”

“Bien. Bon jour,” said the stranger, and he passed on, eager to make other and more diligent inquiries.

And the stranger, whose name was “Silas P. Hoggan, of San Diego, Cal.,” was the same man who had watched the Earl of Bracondale depart in his car, and who now descended to the beach, following in the footsteps of the Countess.