At this point came a knock at her door and her father entered. One look at his face—red, perspiring and decidedly unhappy—served to cheer his daughter.
“Been down to the steamship offices,” he panted, mopping his bald head. “They’re open to-day, just like it was a week day—but they might as well be closed. There’s nothing doing. Every boat’s booked up to the rails; we can’t get out of here for two weeks—maybe more.”
“I’m sorry,” said his daughter.
“No, you ain’t! You’re delighted! You think it’s romantic to get caught like this. Wish I had the enthusiasm of youth.” He fanned himself with a newspaper. “Lucky I went over to the express office yesterday and loaded up on gold. I reckon when the blow falls it’ll be tolerable hard to cash checks in this man’s town.”
“That was a good idea.”
“Ready for breakfast?” he inquired.
“Quite ready,” she smiled.
They went below, she humming a song from a revue, while he glared at her. She was very glad they were to be in London a little longer. She felt she could not go, with that mystery still unsolved.