Baxter sounded worried when he answered. “I trust I don’t have to remind you of your promise?”

“No, darling, you certainly don’t.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Cecily sighed. This was one promise she wished heartily she hadn’t had to make. For somewhere deep inside her, she had the uneasy feeling that she might break it.

The following morning, as she crossed the lobby on her way to the office, she heard the desk clerk calling her name.

Bowed at the shoulders and fast losing his gray hair, Philip seemed to age every time she saw him. His wrinkled forehead gave him a permanent frown, but he seemed even more anxious than usual as she approached the desk.

Still unsettled by her conversation with P.C. Northcott the day before, Cecily felt her nerves tightening. “What is it, Philip? Not bad news, I hope?”

Philip’s eyes were clouded with apprehension. “I’m not sure, m’m. It’s a telegram.” His hand shook as he offered her the wrinkled yellow envelope.

Cecily smothered a cry of dismay. The news had to be something quite disastrous to arrive in such an exceptional fashion.

Her first thought was of her two sons, both abroad. Had something dreadful happened to one of them? She stared at the envelope, too petrified to open it.

“Would you like me to read it, m’m?”

Philip’s tremulous voice jolted her out of her trance. “No, thank you, Philip. I shall take it upstairs to Mr. Baxter. He can open it.” If it contained the awful news she feared, she wanted her husband by her side when she heard it.

Her hasty return to her suite surprised Baxter, who was in the boudoir engaged in some activity that involved rustling paper. He seemed put out when she burst through the door, and immediately escorted her back to the sitting room, where he sat her down in her favorite armchair.

“Now,” he said, smoothing back a lock of gray hair. “Please tell me the cause of all this agitation.”