“Dear Billy,” said the girl gently, “you must not give it up. You know that I can always go to the Lees, until—until I get a position. And nothing is so important as that you should have work that is satisfactory to you. Of course you must accept.”
“Did you ever hear anything so noble?” asked McVay. “Yes, I suppose I ought to accept. So they both tell me. I must go, mustn’t I, Hen?”
“Well, it looks like it would be better for you if you did,” replied the detective, who had fortunately his legitimate share of American humour.
“There is another point, Cecilia,” McVay went on, “if I do accept, I shall have to leave at once. When did you say, Hen?”
“Train to New York this afternoon,—steamer sails to-morrow.”
“Oh, dear. That’s very sudden,” said Cecilia.
“At a word from you, dear, I’ll give it up,” remarked McVay.
“No, no, of course not. I should never forgive myself. You must go. Perhaps it is all the better that I did not know beforehand. It saves me just that amount.”
“We’ve no time to lose,” remarked McVay briskly, “if we are going to try for that afternoon train. I suppose we can get a sleigh at the gardener’s, Holland, if we can struggle as far as that. Well, well, we must hurry off.”
It was McVay who urged on the preparations for departure, hurrying his sister, flitting about the house at such a rate that the detective, who was of a solider build, found it hard to keep up with.