The 'Phone Booth Mystery

“It’s most awfully good of you,” rejoined Sir Robert Rawson heartily. “I would deal with them myself, but we are dining with Lord Warrington, as you know.”

“Yes, sir; but it’s of no consequence really. I can spare the time perfectly well.”

Already Carling’s sleek head was bent over the special dispatches which had just been delivered at the private residence of Sir Robert Rawson. There were two sets, written in different languages, but both referring to one subject--secret intelligence concerning the strained relations between two foreign countries: a matter that at present was suspected rather than known, but that might at any moment develop on serious lines, and even occasion a war involving Great Powers.

These particular papers were probably of immense importance. That remained to be seen; and Carling’s duty was to translate and prepare a précis of them for his chief.

They certainly had arrived at rather an awkward moment for the young secretary--on the eve of his six weeks’ holiday, which would include a honeymoon, for he was to be married on the morrow.

“I don’t know what on earth I shall do without you, Roger,” Sir Robert remarked, casting a glance of mingled affection and compunction at the young man, whom he had learnt to regard as his right hand, and to whom he was sincerely attached, wishing with all his heart that he had a son like him; but he had married late in life and he and his wife were childless.

She entered the room at this moment, and he advanced to meet her with courtly apology.

“Have I kept you waiting, Paula? Forgive me.”

“It is no matter, we are in good time,” she answered in a voice so rich and soft that the words sounded like a caress, accompanied as they were by a smiling glance at her husband. “Why, is that poor Mr. Carling still at work? It is too bad of you, Robert, to detain him on this night of all others.”

She spoke as though she had but just caught sight of the industrious secretary, yet as she entered the room she had seen him at once, and noted his occupation.

She crossed to his side now in a graceful, leisurely manner that, to her husband’s admiring eyes, seemed perfectly natural. He did not perceive the keen glance she directed, not at the secretary, but at the papers over which he was poring.

“It is too bad!” she repeated in her caressing voice. “You should--what is the word?--ah, yes, you should strike, Mr. Carling.”

Roger looked up and stumbled to his feet, thereby interposing himself as a screen between her and his writing-table.

“Not at all, though it’s awfully kind of you to say so, Lady Rawson,” he murmured confusedly. “As I told Sir Robert, I had nothing particular to do this evening; Grace doesn’t expect me, and I’d rather finish up everything to the last moment.”

“Is the work important?” She directed the question to her husband.

“Yes, and we really must not hinder him. Good night, my boy. We shall see you to-morrow. You’ll put those papers in the safe as usual, of course. I’ll attend to them in the morning--or to-night, perhaps.”

“Yes, sir. Good night. Good-bye, Lady Rawson.”

“Not good-bye; you forget that I also will come to the marriage,” she said graciously, giving him her hand.

“We shall be honoured,” he murmured, as he bowed over the small gloved hand, with outward deference and inward aversion.