“But, Tom, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to bring my sister back, and then—”
“And then, Tom dear,” whispered Tryphie, throwing her arms about his neck—“There, do you believe I care for you now?”
“My little pet,” he whispered hoarsely, and rushed away just as Mr Hurkle came up undulating, and looking more like a pulled out concertina than ever.
“Sorry I’ve been so long, sir,” he panted; “but I understand I am required to—”
“Go to the devil,” cried Tom, brushing past him; and as the daylight was growing broader the cab drove into Great Scotland Yard, where there was a certain conversation, and wires were set to work, after which there was an adjournment for breakfast to an hotel at Charing Cross.
“Are—are we going in pursuit, my dear boy?” said his lordship, feebly.
“Yes, certainly, and in earnest.”
“When, my dear Tom?”
“Now directly, father,” said the young man sternly. “The poor girl has been driven mad by her mother’s cruelty; and in a wild fit of infatuation she has preferred to share the fortunes of this handsome foreign vagabond to marrying a worn-out roué.”