"Dick, old boy," said Fred, earnestly, "I have a sort of idea that she has."
"You are a shrewd fellow, Fred—you have a trick of observation. You know what I mean?"
"I do, Dick."
"Well, then, good luck to us!"
The month was November; a fog was gathering; a light mist was dissolving, and falling cold and chill; but Dick Garden was glowing from within. As he was buttoning his coat a man brushed past them, and Fred caught a glimpse of his face.
"A moment, Dick," he said, hurriedly, "that is Tom Barley. I must have a word with him."
He hastened after Tom, and accosted him.
"It is you, Tom. Have you any news?"
"None, sir—that is, none that I can speak of. Don't stop me, please; I haven't a minute to spare." These words came straggling from Tom's lips, and in his anxiety he seemed to be hardly aware of what he was saying.
"Am I mistaken in the idea that you have heard something?" asked Fred.