“Twenty minutes to two,” said Billy, glancing at the clock. “Spirits are walking.”
The next moment a cry rang out from Lady Ingleby’s sitting-room—a cry of such mingled bewilderment, wonder, and relief, that they looked at one another in amazement. Then without waiting to question or consider, they hastened to her.
Lady Ingleby was standing in the middle of the room, an open telegram in her hand.
“Jim,” she was saying; “Oh, Jim!”
Her face was so transfigured by thankfulness and joy, that neither Ronald nor Billy could frame a question. They merely gazed at her.
“Oh, Billy! Oh, Ronald!” she said, “He didn’t do it! Oh think what this will mean to Jim Airth. Stop the boy! Quick! Bring me a telegram form. I must send for him at once.... Oh, Jim, Jim!.... He said he would give his life for the relief of the moment when some one should step into the tent and tell him he had not done it; and now I shall be that ‘some one’!.... Oh, how do you spell ‘Piccadilly’.... Please call Groatley. If we lose no time, he may catch the three o’clock express.... Groatley, tell the boy to take this telegram and have it sent off immediately. Give him half-a-crown, and say he may keep the change.... Now boys.... Shut the door!”
The whirlwind of excitement was succeeded by sudden stillness. Lady Ingleby sank upon the sofa, burying her face for a moment in the cushions.
In the silence they heard the telegraph boy disappearing rapidly into the distance, ringing his bell a very unnecessary number of times. When it could be heard no longer, Lady Ingleby lifted her head.
“Michael is alive,” she said.
“Great Scot!” exclaimed Ronnie, and took a step forward.