"Of course," echoed her brother with a promptitude that hinted at more than a willingness to be convinced that the letter was the Bixbys' and none other.
It was about ten minutes past five that afternoon when the four Bixbys came.
"There, we did get here!" they chorused gleefully.
"Yes, yes, I see, I see," murmured Mrs. Clayton, and signaled to Ethel to hurry into the kitchen and give the alarm to the cook. "Then you—you did n't write?"
"Write? Why, no, of course not! We were n't to, you know, if we could come."
"Yes—er—I mean no," stammered Mrs. Clayton, trying to calculate just how long it would take the maid to put three rooms in order.
At half-past six the family, with their guests, sat down to a dinner that showed unmistakable signs of having been started as a simple one for six, and finished as a would-be elaborate one for ten. To the faces of Mr. Clayton, Ethel, and James the cloud of the morning had returned. Mrs. Clayton, confident that the missing letter contained nothing worse for her than its absence had already brought her, looked comparatively serene.
After dinner, as by common consent, Mr. Clayton and his elder son and daughter met in a secluded comer of the library.
"Hang it all, dad, now whose letter do you suppose that was?" began
James aggressively.
"It's mine," groaned the father, with a shake of his head. "I know it's mine."