In accordance with his wish, Kate tried to quell the excitement within her breast by entering eagerly into the preparations for the evening’s repast, but the next day passed terribly slowly, and she uttered a sigh of relief when the hands of the clock pointed to Garstang’s hour of returning.
He came in, smiling and content, laden with flowers and fruit, part of the former taking the shape of a beautiful bouquet of lilies, which he handed to her with a smile.
“There,” he cried; “aren’t they sweet? I believe, after all, that Covent Garden is the best garden in the world. I’m as pleased as a child over my birthday. Here, Mrs Plant, take this fruit, and let us have it for dessert.”
The housekeeper came at his call, and smiled as she took the basket he had brought in his cab, shaking her head sadly as she went down again.
“Hah!” ejaculated Garstang; “and I must have an extra glass of wine in honour of the occasion. It is all right, my dear,” he whispered, with a great show of mystery. “Plans made, cut and dried. We’ll have them over with the dessert.”
Kate gave him a grateful look, and took up and pressed her bouquet to her lips, while Garstang went to a table drawer and took out a key.
“You have never seen the wine cellar, my dear. Come down with me. It is capitally stored, but rather wasted upon me.”
He went into the hall and lit a chamber candle, returning directly.
“Ready?” he said, as she followed him down the dark stairs to the basement, Becky being seen for a moment flitting before them into the gloom, just as Garstang stopped at a great iron-studded door, and picked up a small basket from a table on the other side of the passage.
The door was unlocked, and opened with a groan, and Garstang handed his companion the candlestick.