“I’m going to ring him up,” George insisted. “It’s not really late—not for Roger anyhow. It’s only just on eleven.”
Winnie let him have his way, not choosing to urge the various reasons against it that occurred at once to her quick feminine mind, but escaped her brother’s obtuse one.
In a surprisingly short time for a “call” the telephone bell tinkled its summons, and George went out into the little hall to answer it.
The colloquy was very brief, and as George hurriedly re-entered she looked up with a whimsical “I told you so” expression on her pretty face, which fled as she saw his agitated aspect.
“I say, Win, they’re not there!”
“Not there!” she ejaculated, starting up.
“Haven’t been there at all. They must be crossing by the night boat after all; such a beastly night too—half a gale and raining cats and dogs. It’s worse there than it is here. I asked.”
“Crossing to-night! And Grace is the worst sailor imaginable. What on earth possessed Roger to take her?”
“He must be mad—mad as a hatter!” cried George, but the same thought and explanation occurred to him as to Winnie, and their eyes met in a glance of mutual horror and consternation.