"But where's she going to—to-morrow? If she goes to-morrow?"
"To the Paynes. The people who brought her over from South America."
"Seem to have worked it all out," Joe Kenyon commented, with a deep sigh. "How long have you been making these plans?"
"Only this afternoon." Arthur said. "But she had written to the Paynes before we—before I said anything to her, you know. She meant to go in any case."
"The old man doesn't know yet, of course," his uncle continued.
"Going to tell him to-morrow morning."
Joe Kenyon considered that thoughtfully for a few seconds before he said, "Can't do anything to you, of course. You may have a pretty stiff time, both of you, but damn it, you're free. He's got no hold on you. Can't do anything—except chuck you out, which is all you're asking for."
"Quite," Arthur agreed, and then added: "This won't affect you in any way, will it, uncle?"
Joe Kenyon pursed his mouth. "Can't put it down to us. Can he?" he inquired. "You'll make that plain enough, between you. What I mean is, this'll be a knock for him, worst in twenty-five years, and he may be spiteful, work off his annoyance on one of us after you've gone, if there's the least excuse."
"Oh! there can't be the least question of involving any one but our two selves," Arthur assured him.