“Are you Mr. Stacey Carroll, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so,” said the clerk. “I remember your cashing a check here last Saturday night. This telegram came for you two days ago. We didn’t know what to do about it, and so we just held it, thinking maybe you’d be back.”
“Thanks,” said Stacey, taking it. “Can’t imagine who’d address me here except Whittaker,” he observed to Ethel, as he tore open the yellow envelope, “and he’d have sent any message to West Boyd.”
But, as he glanced at the telegram, he started.
“Philip dangerously ill with pneumonia. Come at once. Catherine,” it read.
Stacey pushed back his chair and got up quickly. “We’ll have to go—at once!” he said. “A friend of mine is ill—pneumonia.”
She rose. “Your face is pale,” she observed, as he reached for her coat, “You really do care about something, don’t you?”
He nodded, holding out the coat.
“You ought to be glad,” she concluded, slipping it on. “I’m ready.”