Stratton’s face flushed warmly, and he stood staring before him at the window.
“I could not go there now,” he muttered, “without seeing the old man first. It would not be honourable. I meant to wait, but—I must speak at once.”
He re-read the letter, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“And I asked her point blank, and she does not even refer to it. Then it was her doing. God bless her! She has been using her interest and working for me. It’s her work, and she must approve of it.”
He hurriedly thrust the letter into his breast as a double rap came at his door, and, upon opening it, Percy Guest came in.
“Got your wire, old chap, and came on at once. Something the matter?”
“Yes; something serious.”
“My dear old man, I’m so sorry. Want help—money? Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“No, old fellow,” cried Stratton proudly; “the news came this morning, and I telegraphed to you directly.”
“Not—”