'Taking into consideration the awful slowness and stodginess of the place, and the contempt of one's highly educated brothers and sisters,' said Lance, slowly, but with a twinkle in his eye that somehow made up for the words, 'one does drag on life pretty well, by the help of Pur and the organ. The new one is coming by next summer, if there's any faith or conscience in the builder, which I believe there is not.'
'And,' she added, coming near and speaking low, 'did I not hear that there had been a letter from Ferdinand?'
Cherry looked for it. 'Felix took it down to answer,' she said, 'but it was from Sydney. He had seen Mr. Allen.'
'Oh!'
'Yes. He tracked those National Minstrels all over India, Bombay, Calcutta, all manners of places—good faithful fellow—and at last he found they had gone to Sydney, and there, actually, was Mr. Allen, settled down as a music-master, making—I don't know what in a week.'
'But—'
'But there had been a great quarrel, and the concern had broken up; and he did not in the least know where poor Edgar was gone,' sighed Cherry. 'Robin, did you hear what name he sung under at Alexandria?'
'No, Ferdinand only told Wilmet that his name was not in the programme.'
'That good Cacique!' broke out Lance; 'he is about the slowest-witted fellow that walks the earth. I believe he would never believe it was he if he saw anything less than Thomas Edgar Underwood in extra type. If he only would have sent me, I'll be bound I'd have run Edgar down in no time, instead of being always three months behind him, and now off the scent.'
'No, but is he?'