“Oh yes, Cousin Lileth. But can’t you come on to the verandah with us? Oh my!” Miss Glory Giles adds excitedly, as her bright glance falls upon the photograph of Claude that Lileth has allowed to remain upon the table. “Wherever did you get that? So good, too. He’s not here, is he? Oh! he’s a perfect darling, and saved poor Fluffy and me from—oh! such a terrible lot of larrikins. And what’s his name?”
There is no knowing how long Glory would have continued her avalanche of excited encomiums and questions relative to young Angland, had she not been interrupted by her father. For the young lady before us is the damsel whose blue eyes created such havoc in our hero’s breast during his short stay in Brisbane, and she is now pleasurably regarding the sun-picture of her “own hero,” as she always calls Claude when relating the story of his prowess to her school-girl friends, not knowing his real name. And what better name would young Angland have desired, had he only known the honour thus done to his memory?
At the rather anxiously expressed request of Mr. Giles, his daughter, who has just left school for good, relates, without reserve, the whole story of her adventure near the Brisbane Public Gardens. Holding Claude’s photograph all the while, she winds up her breathless recital by repeating her former questions.
Miss Mundella, knowing that her uncle will expect her to take the initiative and smooth down this awkward discovery of Glory’s, that bids fair to prove a complication of the conspirators’ scheme against Claude, has quickly determined what course to pursue, and immediately marches her wits forward against the new danger.
“I may as well tell Glory all about it,” Lileth observes, turning her dark eyes up to Giles, and signalling to him to keep silence with the nearest approach to a wink that she has ever condescended to employ.
“This young man, Glory dear,” she goes on, smiling upon her fair cousin, and placing her hand upon Miss Giles’s shoulder, “is the nephew of Dr. Dyesart, the explorer, of whose death we were speaking during dinner. He will, possibly, be here before long, on his way to attempt the discovery of his uncle’s grave. Mr. Angland, for that is the nephew’s name, was staying at the same hotel in Sydney with my brother Abaddon,—Cousin Jack you used to call him. My brother, finding that Mr. Angland was coming up here, sent me a photograph of him. I don’t know how he got it. I suppose it was given to him. Now, you’re not a silly school-girl any longer, and I think I can trust you with something I am about to say. Can I, dear?”
“Oh yes, Cousin Lileth. But,” hesitatingly, “but it’s not anything bad you’ve heard about Mr. Angland, is it? If it is, pray don’t tell me, please. I always want to be able to think of him as a hero.”
“Well, dear,” answers Miss Mundella, laughing softly, as she recognizes in this confession of hero-worship the characteristics of a simple mind that her own powerful will may some day find it profitable to employ. “Well, dear, you can still continue to do so, as far as I know to the contrary. It’s nothing against Mr. Angland, but just this. You know my brother Abaddon is just a little wild. He has been so long up here, you know; and when he went for his holiday to Sydney, he got—well—rather ‘rampageous’ I think is a good word to express what I mean.”
Mr. Giles, standing a little distance from the two ladies, wonders what on earth his niece is about to evolve from her inner consciousness.
“Now, Glory, I’d rather,” continues Lileth, “I’d rather you did not inform Mr. Angland, if he comes here, that we are any connection of Abaddon’s, for I believe my brother got into serious disgrace with your hero in Sydney.”