They passed the early hours of the evening as best they could, seeking to divert each other's thoughts. It had been long since the kind old banker was so garrulous, and Helen resolved to reward him by keeping up. Indeed, she shrank from retiring, feeling that through the sleepless night she would be the prey of all sorts of wretched fancies. Never once did her wildest thoughts suggest what had happened, or warn her of the tempest soon to rage in her breast.
Then came the late messenger with the landlord's copied note. She snatched it from the bearer's hand before he could ring the bell, for her straining ears had heard his step even on the gravel walk. Tremblingly she tore open, the envelope in the hall without looking at the address.
"Mr. Jackson said how I was to give it to your father," protested the messenger.
"Well, well," responded Mr. Kemble, perturbed and anxious, "I'm here.
You can go unless there's an answer required.'
"Wasn't told nothin' 'bout one," growled the departing errand-boy.
"Give the note to me, Helen," said her father. "Why do you stare at it so?"
She handed it to him without a word, but looked searchingly in his face, and so did his wife, who had joined him.
"Why, this is rather strange," he said.
"I think it is," added Helen, emphatically.
Mrs. Kemble took the note and after a moment ejaculated: "Well, thank the Lord! it isn't about Hobart."