“I’ll be there sharp,” said Robin promptly; “an now pull up, for I must take to my legs here.”
“But I say, Robin, if we do find that gal, you won’t split on me, eh? You won’t tell ’er who I am or where I is? You won’t wictimise your old friend?”
“D’you take me for a informer?” demanded Robin, with an offended look.
“Hall right,” cried the Slogger, giving the signal to drive on.
Robin sped quickly away, executed his mission, and returned to the Black Bull in a state of considerable excitement and strong hope.
Slidder was doomed to disappointment. He reached the Black Bull at two o’clock precisely.
“Vell, my fair one,” he said, addressing a waiting-maid who met him in the passage, “it’s good for sore eyes to see the likes o’ you in cloudy weather. D’you ’appen to know a young man of the name of Sl— I mean Villum Bowls?”
“Yes I do, Mr Imp’rence,” answered the girl.
“You couldn’t introdooce me to him, could you, Miss Sunshine?”
“No, I couldn’t, because he isn’t here, and won’t likely be back for two hours.”
This reply took all the humour out of Robin’s tone and manner. He resolved, however, to wait for half an hour, and went out to saunter in front of the hotel.
Half an hour passed, then another, then another, and the boy was fain to leave the spot in despair.
Poor Slidder’s temperament was sanguine. Slight encouragement raised his hopes very high. Failure depressed him proportionally and woefully low, but, to do him justice, he never sorrowed long. In the present instance, he left the Black Bull grinding his teeth. Then he took to clanking his heels as he walked along in a way that drew forth the comments of several street-boys, to whom, in a spirit of liberality, he returned considerably more than he received. Then he began to mutter between his teeth his private opinion as to faithless persons in general, and faithless Villum, alias the Slogger, in particular, whose character he painted to himself in extremely sombre colours. After that, a heavy thunder-shower having fallen and drenched him, he walked recklessly and violently through every puddle in his path. This seemed to relieve his spirit, for when he reached Hoboy Crescent he had recovered much of his wonted equanimity.
The Slogger was not however, so faithless as his old friend imagined. He had been at the Black Bull before two o’clock, but had been sent off by his employer with a note to a house at a considerable distance in such urgent haste that he had not time even to think of leaving a message for his friend.
In these circumstances, he resolved to clear his character by paying a visit on the following Sunday to Number 6 Grovelly Street, Shadwell Square.
Chapter Twelve
Begins with Love, Hope, and Joy, and ends Peculiarly
It may not perhaps surprise the reader to learn that after Lilly Blythe’s return to town, I did not prosecute my studies with as much enthusiasm as before. In fact I divided my attentions pretty equally between Lilly and chemistry.
Now, I am not prone to become sentimentally talkative about my own affairs, but as courtship, and love, and that sort of thing are undoubted and important elements in the chemistry of human affairs, and as they influenced me and those around me to some extent, I cannot avoid making reference to them, but I promise the reader to do so only as far as appears necessary for the elucidation of my story.
First, then, although I knew that my prospects of success as a partner of Dr McTougall were most encouraging, I felt that it would be foolish to think of marriage until my position was well established and my income adequate. I therefore strove with all my might to check the flow of my thoughts towards Miss Blythe. As well might I have striven to restrain the flow of Niagara. True love cannot be stemmed! In my case, however, the proverb was utterly falsified, for my true love did “run smooth.” More than that, it ran fast—very fast indeed, so much so that I was carried, as it were, on the summit of a rushing flood-tide into the placid harbour of Engagement. The anchorage in that harbour is with many people uncertain. With Lilly and me it was not so. The ground-tackle was good; it had caught hold of a rock and held on.
It happened thus. After many weeks of struggling on my part to keep out of Miss Blythe’s way, and to prevent the state of my feelings from being observed by her—struggles which I afterwards found to my confusion had been quite obvious to her—I found myself standing alone, one Sunday afternoon, in the doctor’s drawing-room, meditating on the joys of childhood, as exemplified by thunderous blows on the floor above and piercing shouts of laughter. The children had been to church and were working off the steam accumulated there. Suddenly there was a dead silence, which I knew to be the result of a meal. The meal was, I may add, the union of a late dinner with an early tea. It was characteristic of Sundays in the McTougall nursery.
The thought of this union turned my mind into another channel. Just then Miss Blythe entered. She looked so radiant that I forgot myself, forgot my former struggles, my good resolutions—everything except herself—and proposed on the spot!
I was rejected—of course! More than that, I was stunned! Hope had told me many flattering tales. Indeed, I had felt so sure, from many little symptoms, that Lilly had a strong regard for me—to say the least—that I was overwhelmed, not only by my rejection, but by the thought of my foolish self-assurance.
“I don’t wonder that you look upon me as a presumptuous, vain, contemptible fellow,” said I, in the bitterness of my soul.
“But I do not regard you in that light,” said Lilly, with a faint smile, and then, hesitatingly, she looked down at the carpet.
“In what light do you regard me, Miss Blythe?” said I, recovering a little hope, and speaking vehemently.
“Really, Dr Mellon, you take me by surprise; your manner—so abrupt—so—”
“Oh! never mind manner, dear Miss Blythe,” said I, seizing her hand, and forcibly detaining it. “You are the soul of truth; tell me, is there any hope for me?—can you care for me?”
“Dr Mellon,” she said, drawing her hand firmly away, “I cannot, should not reply. You do not know all the—the circumstances of my life—my poverty, my solitary condition in the world—my—my—”
“Miss Blythe,” I exclaimed, in desperation, “if you were as poor as a—a—church rat, as solitary as—as—Adam before the advent of Eve, I would count it my chief joy, and—”
“Hallo! Mellon, hi! I say! where are you?” shouted the voice of the doctor at that moment from below stairs. “Here’s Dumps been in the laboratory, and capsized some of the chemicals!”
“Coming, sir!” I shouted; then tenderly, though hurriedly, to Miss Blythe, “You will let me resume this subject at—”
“Hallo! look sharp!” from below.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be down directly!—Dear Miss Blythe, if you only knew—”
“Why, the dog’s burning all over—help me!” roared the doctor.
Miss Blythe blushed and laughed. How could she help it? I hastily kissed her hand, and fled from the room.
That was the whole affair. There was not enough, strictly speaking, to form a ground of hope; but somehow I knew that it was all right. In the laboratory I found Dumps smoking, and the doctor pouring water from the tap on his dishevelled body. He was not hurt, and little damage was done; but as I sat in my room talking to him that evening, I could not help reproaching him with having been the means of breaking off one of the most important interviews of my life.
“However, Dumps,” I continued, “your good services far outweigh your wicked deeds, and whatever you may do in the future, I will never forget that you were the means of introducing me to that angel, Lilly Blythe.”
The angel in question went that Sunday evening at seven o’clock, as was her wont, to a Bible class which she had started for the instruction of some of the poor neglected boys and lads who idled about in the dreary back streets of our aristocratic neighbourhood. The boys had become so fond of her that they were eager to attend, and usually assembled round the door of the class-room before the hour.
My protégé, Robin Slidder, was of course one of her warmest adherents. He was standing that night apart from the other boys, contemplating the proceedings of two combative sparrows which quarrelled over a crumb of bread on the pavement, and had just come to the conclusion that men and sparrows had some qualities in common, when he was attracted by a low whistle, and, looking up, beheld the Slogger peeping round a neighbouring corner.
“Hallo! Slog—Villum I mean; how are you? Come along. Vell, I am glad to see you, for, d’you know, arter you failed me that day at the Black Bull, I have bin givin’ you a pretty bad character, an’ callin’ you no end o’ bad names.”
“Is that what your ‘angel’ teaches you, Robin?”
“Vell, not exactly, but you’ll hear wot she teaches for yourself to-night, I ’ope. Come, I’m right glad to see you, Villum. What was it that prevented you that day, eh?”
When the Slogger had explained and cleared his character, Robin asked him eagerly if he had ascertained anything further about the girl whom he and Brassey had robbed.
“Of course I have,” said the Slogger, “and it’s a curious suckumstance that ’er place of abode—so Sally says—is in the Vest End, not wery far from here. She gave me the street and the name, but wasn’t quite sure of the number.”
“Vell, come along, let’s hear all about it,” said Robin impatiently.
“Wy, wot’s all your ’urry?” returned the Slogger slowly; “I ain’t goin’ away till I’ve heerd wot your angel’s got to say, you know. Besides, I must go arter your meeting’s over an watch the ’ouse till I see the gal an’ make sure that it’s her, for Sally may have bin mistook, you know.”
“You don’t know her name, do you?” asked Robin; “it wasn’t Edie Willis, now, was it?”
“’Ow should I know ’er name?” answered the Slogger. “D’you think I stopped to inquire w’en I ’elped to relieve ’er of ’er propity?”
“Ah, I suppose not. Vell, I suppose you’ve no objection to my goin’ to watch along wi’ you.”
“None wotsomever; on’y remember, if it do turn out to be ’er, you won’t betray me. Honour bright! She may be revengeful, you know, an’ might ’ave me took up if she got ’old of me.”
Robin Slidder faithfully and earnestly pledged himself. While he was speaking there was a general movement among the lads and boys towards the class-room, for Miss Blythe was seen coming towards them. The two friends moved with the rest. Just as he was about to enter the door, Robin missed his companion, and, looking back, saw him bending down, and holding his sides as if in pain.
“Wot’s wrong now?” he inquired, returning to him.
“Oh! I’m took so bad,” said the Slogger, looking very red, and rubbing himself; “a old complaint as I thought I was cured of. Oh, dear! you’ll ’ave to excuge me, Robin. I’ll go an’ take a turn, an’ come in if I gits better. If not, I’ll meet you round the corner arter it’s over.”
So saying, the Slogger, turning round, walked quickly away, and his little friend entered the class-room in a state of mind pendulating between disgust and despair, for he had no expectation of seeing the slippery Slogger again that night.
When the meeting was over, Miss Blythe returned home. I saw her enter the library. No one else was there, I knew. The gas had not yet been lighted, and only a faint flicker from the fire illumined the room. Unable to bear the state of uncertainty under which my mind still laboured, I resolved to make assurance doubly sure, or quit the house—and England—for ever!
I spare the reader the details. Suffice it to say that after much entreaty, I got her to admit that she loved me, but she refused to accept me until she had told me her whole history.
“Then I’m sure of you now,” said I, in triumph; “for, be your history what it may, I’ll never give you up, dearest Lilly—”
“Don’t call me Lilly,” she said in a low, quiet tone; “it is only a pet name which the little ones here gave me on my first coming to them. Call me Edith.”
“I will,” said I, with enthusiasm, “a far more beautiful name. I’ll—”
“Hallo! hi! Mellon, are you there?”
For the second time that day Dr McTougall interrupted me, but I was proof against annoyance now.
“Yes, I am here,” I shouted, running downstairs. “Surely Dumps is not burning himself again—eh?”
“Oh no,” returned my friend, with a laugh—“only a telegram. However, it’s important enough to require prompt attention. The Gordons in Bingley Manor—you know them—telegraph me to run down immediately; old lady ill. Now, it unfortunately happens that I have an engagement this evening which positively cannot be put off, so I must send you. Besides, I know well enough what it is. They’re easily alarmed, and I’m convinced it is just the old story. However, the summons must be obeyed. You will go for me. The train starts in half an hour. You will have plenty of time to catch it, if you make haste. You’ll have to stay all night. No return train till to-morrow, being an out-of-the-way place. There, off with you. Put the telegram in your pocket for the address.”
So saying, the doctor put on his hat and left the house.
Summoning Robin Slidder, I bade him pack a few things into my travelling-bag while I wrote a note. When he had finished he told me of his interview with the Slogger. I was greatly interested, and asked if he had gone to see his friend after the meeting.
“No, sir, I didn’t. I meant to, but Miss Blythe wanted me to walk ’ome with ’er, it was so dark, an’ w’en I went back he had gone.”
“Pity, Robin—a great pity,” said I, hastily strapping up my bag, “but no doubt he’ll come here again to see you.—Now, don’t forget to take over that parcel of tea and sugar, etcetera, to Mrs Willis. Go as soon as you can.” Saying this, I left the house.
The new residence of the old woman being now so near to Hoboy Crescent the parcel was soon delivered, and Robin officiated at the opening of it, also at the preparing and consuming of some of its contents. Of course he chatted vigorously, as was his wont, but was particularly careful to make not the most distant allusion to the Slogger or his reports, being anxious not to arouse her hopes until he should have some evidence that they were on a true scent. Indeed, he was so fearful of letting slip some word or remark on the subject and thereby awakening suspicion and giving needless pain, that he abstained from all reference to the meeting of that evening, and launched out instead into wonderful and puzzling theological speculations, of which he was very fond.
Meanwhile I was carried swiftly into the country. The lamp in my carriage was too dim to permit of reading; I therefore wrapped myself in my rug and indulged in pleasant meditations.
It was past midnight when I arrived at the station for Bingley Manor, where I found a gig awaiting me. A sharp drive of half an hour and I was at the mansion door.
Dr McTougall was right. There was little the matter with old Mrs Gordon, but the family were nervous, and rich—hence my visit. I did what was necessary for the patient, comforted the rest by my presence, had a sound night’s rest, an early breakfast, a pleasant drive in the fresh frosty air, and a brief wait of five minutes, when the punctual train came up.
There is something inexpressibly delightful in a ride, on a sharp frosty morning, in an express train. I have always felt a wild bounding sensation of joy in rapid motion. The pace at which we went that morning was exceptionally charming. Had I known that the engine-driver was intoxicated perhaps it might not have been quite so exhilarating, but I did not know that. I sat comfortably in my corner thinking of Edith, and gazing with placid benignity at the frosted trees and bushes which sparkled in the red wintry sun.
Yes, it was a glorious ride! I never had a better. The part of the country through which we passed was lovely. One can always gaze comfortably at the distant landscape from a railway carriage, however great the speed. As for the immediate foreground, it reminded me of a race—houses, trees, farms, towns, villages, hamlets, horses, sheep, cattle, poultry, hayricks, brickfields, were among the competitors in that race. They rushed in mad confusion to the rear. I exulted in the pace. Not so a stout elderly gentleman in the opposite corner, who evidently disliked it—so true is it that “one man’s meat is another’s poison.”
“There is no reason to fear, sir,” said I, with a smile, by way of reassuring him. “This is a most excellently managed line—one never hears of accidents on it.”
“Too fast just now, anyhow,” returned the elderly gentleman testily.
Just then the whistle was heard sounding violently.
“That is a sign of safety,” said I; “shows that they are on the alert.”
A severe application of the brakes caused me to stop abruptly, and the elderly man to seize the arms of his seat with a convulsive grasp.
Suddenly there was a mighty crash. The sensations in my mind that followed were suggestive of cannons, rockets, bombs, fireworks, serpents, shooting-stars, and tumbling débris. Then—all was dark and silent as the grave!
Chapter Thirteen
A Wonderful Discovery
Slowly recovering consciousness, I found myself lying on the floor of a waiting-room, with a gentleman bending over me. Instantly recollecting what had occurred, I endeavoured to start up, but was obliged to fall back again.
“You must lie quiet sir,” said the gentleman. “You’re not much hurt. We will send you on, if you choose, by the train that is expected in a few minutes.”
“Is the elderly gentleman safe?” I asked eagerly.
“Which elderly gentleman? There were several in the train, but none are injured, I believe, though some are much shaken. Nobody has been killed. It has been quite a miraculous escape.”
“Merciful—call it merciful, my dear sir,” said I, looking upwards and thanking God with all my heart for sparing my life.
Two days after that I lay on the drawing-room sofa in Hoboy Crescent. Mr and Mrs McTougall had gone out. So had the children, the forenoon being fine. Edith had remained at home, for reasons which she did not see fit to divulge. She sat beside me with one of her hands in mine. It was all arranged between us by that time.
“Edith,” said I after a short pause in our conversation, “I have long wanted to tell you about a dear little old lady with whom Robin Slidder and I have had much to do. She’s one of my poor patients, whom I have not mentioned to you before, but I’ve heard something about her lately which makes me wish to ask your advice—perhaps your aid—in a rather curious search which I’ve been engaged in for a long time past.”
“I will go for my work, John, and you shall tell me all about it,” she replied, rising. “I shall be five or ten minutes in preparing it. Can you wait patiently?”
“Well, I’ll try, though of course it will be like a separation of five or ten years, but Dumps and I will solace each other in your absence.—By the way, touch the bell as you pass. I should like to see Robin, not having had a talk with him since the accident.”
When Robin appeared I asked him if he had seen the Slogger.
“No, sir, I ’aven’t,” replied Robin, with a somewhat cross look. “That there Slogger has played me false these two times. Leastwise, though he couldn’t ’elp it the fust time, he’s got to clear ’isself about the second.”
“You know where the Slogger lives, don’t you?” I asked.
“Oh yes, but it’s a long, long way off, an’ I durstn’t go without leave, an’ since you was blowed up i’ the train I’ve scarce ’ad a word with the doctor—he’s bin that busy through ’avin’ your patients on ’is ’ands as well as is own.”
“Well, Robin, I give you leave to go. Be off within this very hour, and see that you bring me back some good news. Now that we have reason to believe the poor girl is in London, perhaps near us, I cannot rest until we find her—or prove the scent to have been a false one. Away with you!”
As the boy went out, Edith came back with her work basket.
“I’ve been thinking,” said I, as she sat down on a stool beside me, “that before beginning my story, it would be well that you should unburden your dear little heart of that family secret of yours which you thought at first was a sufficient bar to our union. But before you begin, let me solemnly assure you that your revelations, whatever they are, will utterly fail to move me. Though you should declare yourself to be the daughter of a thief, a costermonger, or a chimpanzee monkey—though you should profess yourself to have been a charwoman, a foundling, a Billingsgate fish-woman, or a female mountebank—my feelings and resolves will remain the same. Sufficient for me to know that you are you, and that you are mine!—There, go on.”
“Truly, then, if such be your feelings, there is no need of my going on, or even beginning,” she replied, with a smile, and yet with a touch of sadness in her tone which made me grasp her hand.
“Ah, Edith! I did not mean to hurt you by my jesting, and yet the spirit of what I say is true—absolutely true.”
“You did not hurt me, John; you merely brought to my remembrance my great sorrow and—”
“Your great sorrow!” I exclaimed in surprise, gazing at her smooth young face.
“Yes, my great sorrow, and I was going to add, my loss. But you shall hear. I have no family mystery to unfold. All that I wished you to know on that head was that I am without family altogether. All are dead. I have no relation on earth—not one.”
She said this with such deep pathos, while tears filled her eyes, that I could not have uttered a word of comfort to save my life.
“And,” she continued, “I am absolutely penniless. These two points at first made me repel you—at least, until I had explained them to you. Now that you look upon them as such trifles I need say no more. But the loss to which I have referred is, I fear, irreparable. You won’t think me selfish or tiresome if I go back to an early period of my history?”
“Selfish! tiresome!” I repeated, “oh, Edith!”
“Well, then, many years ago my father and mother lived by the seashore not far from Yarmouth. They were poor. My father gave lessons in French, my mother taught music. But they earned sufficient to support themselves and my grandmother and me in comfort. We were a very happy family, for we all loved God and tried to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. I gave them, indeed, a great deal of trouble at first, but He overcame my stubborn heart at last, and then there was nothing to mar the happiness of our lives. But sickness came. My father died. My mother tried to struggle on for a time, but could not earn enough; I tried to help her by teaching, but had myself need of being taught. At last we changed our residence, in hopes of getting more remunerative employment, but in this we failed. Then my mother fell sick and died.”
She stopped at this point.
“Oh, Edith! this makes you doubly dear,” said I, drawing her nearer to me.
In a few minutes she continued—
“Being left alone now with my grandmother, I resolved to go to London and try to find employment in the great city. We had not been long here, and I had not yet obtained employment when an extraordinary event occurred which has ever since embittered my life. I went out for a walk one day, and was robbed.”
“How strange!” I exclaimed, half rising from the sofa. “What a curious coincidence!”
“What! How? What do you mean?” she asked, looking at me in surprise.
“Never mind just now. When I come to tell you my story you will understand. There is a robbery of a young girl in it too.—Go on.—”
“Well, then, as I said, I was robbed by a man and a boy. I had dear little Pompey with me at the time, and that is the way I came to lose him. But the terrible thing was that an accident befell me just after I was robbed, and I never saw my darling grandmother again—”
“Coincidence!” I exclaimed, starting up, as a sudden thought was forced upon my mind, and my heart began to beat violently, “this is more than a coincidence; and yet—it cannot be—pooh! impossible! ridiculous! My mind is wandering.”
I sank back somewhat exhausted, for I had been considerably weakened by my accident. Edith was greatly alarmed at my words and looks, and blamed herself for having talked too much to me in my comparatively weak condition.
“No, you have not talked too much to me. You cannot do that, dear Edie,” I said.
It was now her turn to look bewildered.
“Edie!” she echoed. “Why—why do you call me Edie?”
I covered my eyes with my hand, that she might not see their expression.
“There can be no doubt now,” I thought; “but why that name of Blythe?” Then aloud:
“It is a pretty contraction for Edith, is it not? Don’t you like it?”
“Like it? Yes. Oh, how much! But—but—”
“Well, Edie,” I said, laying powerful restraint on myself, and looking her calmly in the face, “you must bear with me to-night. You know that weakness sometimes causes men to act unaccountably. Forgive me for interrupting you. I won’t do it again, as the naughty boys say.—Go on, dear, with your story.”
I once more covered my eyes with my hand, as if to shade them from the light, and listened, though I could scarcely conceal my agitation.
“The name of Edie,” she continued, “is that by which my darling granny always called me, and it sounded so familiar—yet so strange—coming from your lips. But, after all, it is a natural abbreviation. Well, as I said, an accident befell me. I had burst away from the thieves in a state of wild horror, and was attempting to rush across a crowded thoroughfare, when a cab knocked me down. I felt a sharp pang of pain, heard a loud shout and then all was dark.
“On recovering I found myself lying in one of the beds of a hospital. My collar-bone had been broken, and I was very feverish—scarcely understood where I was, and felt a dull sense of oppression on my brain. They spoke to me, and asked my name. I don’t remember distinctly how I pronounced it, but I recollect being somewhat amused at their misunderstanding what I said, and calling me Miss Eva Bright! I felt too ill to correct them at the time, and afterwards became so accustomed to Eva—for I was a very long time there—that I did not think it worth while to correct the mistake. This was very foolish and unfortunate, for long afterwards, when I began to get well enough to think coherently, and sent them to let granny know where I was, they of course went with the name of Eva Bright. It was very stupid, no doubt, but I was so weak and listless after my long and severe illness that this never once occurred to me. As it turned out, however, there would have been no difference in the result, for my darling had left her lodging and gone no one knew where. This terrible news brought on a relapse, and for many weeks, I believe, my life hung on a thread. But that thread was in the hand of God, and I had no fear.”
“What is the name, Edie, of the grandmother you have lost?” I asked, in a low, tremulous voice.
“Willis—but—why do you start so? Now I am quite sure you have been more severely hurt than you imagine, and that my talking so much is not good for you.”
“No—Edie—no. Go on,” I said firmly.
“I have little more to tell,” she continued. “Dear Dr McTougall had attended me in the hospital, and took a fancy to me. When I was well enough to leave, he took me home to be governess to his children. But my situation has been an absolute sinecure as yet, for he says I am not strong enough to work, and won’t let me do anything. It was not till after I had left the hospital that I told my kind friend the mistake that had been made about my name, and about my lost grandmother. He has been very kind about that, and assisted me greatly at first in my search for her. But there are so many—so many people of the name of Willis in London—old ladies too! We called together on so many that he got tired of it at last. Of course I wrote to various people at York, and to the place where we had lived before going there, but nothing came of it, and now—my hopes have long ago died out—that is to say, almost—but I still continue to make inquiries.”
She paused here for some time, and I did not move or speak, being so stunned by my discovery that I knew not what to say, and feared to reveal the truth to Edith too suddenly. Then I knew by the gentle way in which she moved that she thought I had fallen asleep. I was glad of this, and remained quietly thinking.
There was no doubt now in my mind that Edie Blythe was this lost granddaughter of old Mrs Willis, but the name still remained an insoluble mystery.
“Edie,” said I abruptly, “is your name Blythe?”
“Of course it is,” she said, in startled surprise, “why should you doubt it?”
“I don’t doubt it,” said I, “but I’m sorely puzzled. Why is it not Willis?”
“Why?” exclaimed Edie, with a little laugh, “because I am the daughter of Granny Willis’s daughter—not of her son. My father’s name was Blythe!”
The simplicity of this explanation, and my gross stupidity in quietly assuming from the beginning, as a matter of course, that the lost Edie’s name was the same as her grandmother’s, burst upon me in its full force. The delusion had been naturally perpetuated by Mrs Willis never speaking of her lost darling except by her Christian name. For a few seconds I was silent, then I exploded in almost an hysterical fit of laughter, in the midst of which I was interrupted by the sudden entrance of my doggie, who had returned from a walk with Robin, and began to gambol round his mistress as if he had not seen her for years.
“Oh, sir! I say! I’ve diskivered all about—”
Little Slidder had rushed excitedly into the room, but stopped abruptly on observing Miss Blythe, who was looking from him to me with intense surprise.
Before another word could be said, a servant entered:—
“Please, Miss Blythe, Doctor McTougall wishes to see you in his study.”
She left us at once.
“Now, Robin,” said I, with emphasis, “sit down on that chair, opposite me, and let’s hear all about it.”
The excited boy obeyed, and Dumps, leaping on another chair beside him, sat down to listen, with ears erect, as if he knew what was coming.