“Mr Brettison!” cried Stratton, in amaze.
“Hush!”
The door opened, and Mrs Brade reappeared with a black reticule in one hand and a ruddy telegram envelope in the other.
“I see, wanted already,” said the old man, hastily catching up hat, stick, and collecting box, and hurrying out without another word.
“Telegram, sir; and there’s the change, sir.”
“Eh! The notes? Thank you, Mrs Brade,” said Stratton hurriedly, and taking the packet he laid them on the table and placed a bronze letter weight to keep them down. “That will do, thank you, Mrs Brade. Tell your husband to fetch my luggage, and meet me at Charing Cross. He’ll take a cab, of course.”
“I shall be there, too, sir, never you fear,” said the porter’s wife, with a smile, as she left the room, Stratton hurriedly tearing open the envelope the while, and reading as the door closed:
No bride’s bouquet. What a shame! See to it at once.
Edie.
“Confound!” ejaculated Stratton; “and after all their promises. Here, Mrs Brade, quick. Gone!”
He threw open the door to call the woman back, but before he could open his lips she had returned.