“You’ll arrange for everything, won’t you?” said Desmond.
“Rather. Now don’t worry. The boat leaves Sydney at noon on the seventh of next month—eleven days from now. It’s the Clan Ronald. I’ll book your berths and await you there.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Their farewells were said, and Alan was left alone. He stayed a few days longer at Walla Balla among the friends he had made, and then travelled by easy stages to Sydney. The country was very beautiful but he longed to get home. He longed to see the smoky chimneys of London, the bustling streets, to hear again the noisy traffic, and at last to enjoy the truly rural beauty of the English lanes and woods. He longed to see his uncle. Was he still alive? he wondered. He was afraid to cable; he was afraid to write. Suddenly an idea came into his head and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. He would write to his uncle’s confidential clerk and friend—Masters. He could trust him to break the news gently.
“Hotel Majestic,
“Sydney.
“Dear Masters (he wrote)
“You’ll be surprised to hear from one whom you no doubt have long mourned as dead. Don’t be afraid—it is no ghost who is writing you, but a living man. I cannot explain everything in this letter, but I am catching the next boat home, and I will telegraph on reaching Plymouth the exact time we expect to arrive in London. Yes—it’s ‘we,’ Masters, for I have found my cousin Desmond. It all sounds wildly impossible I know, and I am writing you that you may break the news to my uncle that we still live. Tell him we are longing to see him. Tell him Desmond has found a wife and is bringing her home. I can say no more—my hand is trembling with excitement as I write. We have seen strange things, been to many strange places since we left Marshfielden, but impress upon Sir John, that had we been able to communicate with him we should have done so.
“With our renewed wishes to Sir John and yourself,