“But, my dear Tom, it is impossible.”
“Look here, father,” said the young man, “the poor girl’s future is at stake. She has been cruelly treated. Our behaviour to Charley Melton was simply disgusting—one day he was worshipped, supposed to have money; the next he was forbidden the house, because he was poor. As for Maude’s feelings—of course, poor girl, as a young lady of fashion, she ought to have had none. I hope mamma is satisfied with her new son-in-law.”
“But—but where are we going?”
“Don’t know yet,” said the young man, harshly. “To Paris certain—probably to Italy. Maybe, though,” he said, with a bitter laugh, “only as far as the padrone’s at Saffron Hill.”
By the time father and son had made a very poor breakfast, a sergeant was ushered in by the waiter.
“We’ve got the cabman, sir.”
“Well, where did he take them?”
“Charing Cross station, sir.”
“Of course,” said Tom—“they would just catch the night train for the tidal boat. Come along, father.”
“Too soon for the train yet, sir,” said the sergeant; “but I dare say they’ll have been stopped at Folkestone or Dover, unless it was a dodge, and they haven’t left town.”