In the morning, although he was not down for breakfast until nine o’clock, he was ahead of any of the others. One of the servants handed him a telegram. He read it with amusement over Betty’s cleverness.
Thomas Fessenden,
Sandywood, Polocoke County, Maryland.
Meet me Club one o’clock. Important personal matter. Want your advice. Don’t fail me.
Charles Danton.
He requested the butler to turn over the telegram to Mr. and Mrs. Cresap, and to explain to them that he would be back at Sandywood before dinner. On the plea that he vastly preferred a walk, he managed to evade the man’s suggestion that the car be brought round to take him to Sandywood Station.
Precisely at ten o’clock he was cooling his heels on the stone wall at the foot of the lane.
In that shaded hollow the sun had not yet pierced to dry the dew from the wild myrtle. Now and then the clambering creepers rustled where a field-mouse ran shyly through them. An oriole flashed from a sycamore, like an orange tossed deftly skyward. Spring was a living presence—Fessenden was stirred by its exuberance as he had not been these ten years.
By and by a rattle of wheels came to his ears. Presently a serene gray mare hove in sight, escorting, rather than pulling, a low-swung landau with an ancient calash-top. So capacious was the hood that at first he could descry no one in its depths. Then the mare came to a condescending halt, and a laughing face leaned into view.
