"Come here, boy! Can you take a telegram?"
"Ahve got one," said the leaden-footed herald unfastening his satchel. "Miss Fen—Fen——"
Bryan snatched it from his hand.
"Open it, please," said Fenella in the ghost of a voice.
"By George!" said the baronet, looking up, "this is Providence. This lets us all out."
"Read it, please."
"Lady Anne very ill. Asks for you. Think you had better come. Wire."
"I don't think that's good news at all."
"Well, it suits us, doesn't it?" with a quick look at the troubled, indignant face. "You mustn't feel things too much, you know. Fancy Anne Caslon dying in her bed at last! 'Tattering Annie' they used to call her in the West Meath. Fate! fate! there's nothing else. Here, boy," he said, putting his hand in his breeches pocket, "take this, and cut away to the station and tell 'em to stop the two-twenty. Shocked at me, ain't you?" he said, as the boy trotted off after a backward gape at the strange couple.
"I think it's horrid to talk about fate as if it was meant to do our little odd lying jobs for us. I'm very much upset at the news."