Mother smiled, just a little. “Don’t be foolish, dear,” she replied. “If you know anything about Geoffrey it is only right for you to tell us. We are not his enemies.”
For a moment Ernie stood silent; then she said, very low, “I know, but I can’t tell. I’ve promised.”
At that instant there sounded a second peal at the bell. This time it was Uncle George. Never before in my life have I seen him so upset, though it was evident he tried to appear indifferent.
His first words were addressed to Maria.
“Go home to your mistress, my good girl,” he said.
Then, turning to mother,—“It does not answer to send servants on such errands. They simply stand and gossip.”
Mother flushed a little. “Maria is quite blameless,” she replied. “I desired to hear all she knew in regard to Geoffrey. Have you any further news?”
Uncle George laid his hat carefully upon a chair, and felt in his coat pocket.
“It seems the young scamp left a note,” he said, in a voice that was husky, despite his assumption of unconcern. “It was not in his room, or we would have found it earlier. He gave it to Georgie last night, telling him to give it to me this morning as soon as he had finished breakfast in the nursery.” And Uncle George handed mother a folded sheet of paper.
“Dear father,” we read,—I was looking over her shoulder,—