"No," she said, perversely; "let it find me, if it can."
It came, a minute later, by the hand of Conductor Halsey. She read it with a little frown of perplexity gathering between the straight brows.
"Do we live or die?" Brockway asked, crucially anxious to know what his friend had been able to do for him.
"Why, I don't understand it at all; it's simply Greek, after the other one. Papa says: 'Do not return on forenoon train. We shall wait for you.'"
"Good; I am a true prophet, and our white day is assured."
"Y—yes, but I don't begin to understand how he came to change his mind so quickly."
"Perhaps it was the moral force of my impudence," ventured Brockway.
"Don't make any such mistake as that," she said, quickly. "Papa will not forgive or forget that, and I am sorry you did it."
"You are a bundle of inconsistencies, as you promised to be," Brockway retorted. "But I'm not sorry, and I don't pretend to be. If I had smothered my little inspiration and given you your telegram at Golden, you wouldn't be enjoying this magnificent scenery now."
"No; and it is grand beyond words, isn't it? If it wasn't for the name of it, I could rave over it like a veritable 'Cooky.' Can't we go out on the platform?"