Jack quickened his steps. “I didn’t know you were back, father,” he declared, as he came close. “I’m glad you are, sir. I’ve news, important news!”
The elder Telfair scowled. “News, have you, sir?” he rumbled. “So have I. Come inside, quick, and we’ll exchange.” Turning, he led the way through a deep hall into a great room, whose oak-panelled walls were hung with full-length portraits of dead and gone Telfairs—distinguished men and women whose strong faces showed that in their time they had cut a figure in the world. There he faced round.
“Now, sir, tell your news,” he ordered. “I’ll warrant it’s short and foolish.”
“Perhaps!” Jack grinned; he and his father were excellent friends. “Did you know, sir, that our kinsman, Delaroche Telfair, was dead, leaving a daughter who is a ward of Tecumseh, the Shawnee chief?”
The elder Telfair blinked. “Good Lord!” he said, softly. He tottered a step or two backward and dropped heavily into a chair. “You’ve had a letter, too?” he gasped.
“A letter? No, sir; not a letter——”
“You must have, sir. Don’t trifle with me! I’m in no temper to stand it. Who brought you the letter?”
“I haven’t any letter, father. I haven’t heard of any letter. I met an Indian——”
“An Indian?”
“Yes. A Shawnee from Ohio, a messenger from Tecumseh——”