But Susan did not see her nor have it out with her; for, as it happened, something occurred that night so all-absorbing and exciting that even the unexplained absence of Dorothy Parkman became as nothing beside it.
With the abrupt suddenness that sometimes makes the long-waited-for event a real shock, came the news of the death of the poor old woman whose frail hand had held the wealth that Susan had coveted for Daniel Burton and his son.
The two men left the next morning on the four-hundred-mile journey that would take them to the town where Nancy Holworthy had lived.
Scarcely had they left the house before Susan began preparations for their home-coming, as befitted their new estate. Her first move was to get out all the best silver and china. She was busy cleaning it when Mrs. McGuire came in at the kitchen door.
"What's the matter?" she began breathlessly.
"Where's Keith? John's been askin' for him all the mornin'. Is Mr. Burton sick? They just telephoned from the store that Mr. Burton had sent word that he wouldn't be down for a few days. He isn't sick, is he?—or Keith? I couldn't make out quite all they said; but there was somethin' about Keith. They ain't either of 'em sick, are they?"
"Oh, no, they're both well—very well, thank you." There was an air, half elation, half superiority, about Susan that was vaguely irritating to Mrs. McGuire.
"Well, you needn't be so secret about it, Susan," she began a little haughtily. But Susan tossed her head with a light laugh.
"Secret! I guess 't won't be no secret long. Mr. Daniel Burton an'
Master Keith have gone away, Mis' McGuire."
"Away! You mean—a—a vacation?" frowned Mrs. McGuire doubtfully.