Her husband hastened to the closet, found his slippers and bathrobe—the latter was a recent addition to his wardrobe, bought because his wife had learned that B. Phelps Black possessed no less than three bathrobes—and shuffled out into the hall. The bell had awakened other members of the household. A light shone under the door of John Doane's room, and from Gertrude's apartment his daughter's voice demanded to know what was the matter.
Daniel announced that he didn't know, but cal'lated to find out, and shuffled down the stairs. The lights in the hall and drawing-room were still burning, Gertrude and John having forgotten to extinguish them. Captain Dan unlocked the front door and flung it open. A uniformed messenger boy was standing on the steps.
“Telegram for John Doane,” announced the boy. “Any answer?”
Daniel seized the proffered envelope. “How in time do I know whether there's any answer or not?” he demanded pettishly. “I ain't read it yet, have I? Think I've got second sight? Why in the nation didn't you ring up on the telephone, instead of comin' here and routin' out the neighborhood?”
The boy grinned. “Against the rules,” he said. “Can't send telegrams by 'phone unless we have special orders.”
“Well, I give you orders then. Next time you telephone. Hold on a minute now. John! oh, John!”
Mr. Doane, partially dressed, his coat collar turned up to hide the absence of linen, was already at the head of the stairs, and descending.
“Coming, Captain Dott,” he said. “For me, is it?”
“Yes. A telegram for you. What—good land, Gertie! you up, too?”
Gertrude, in kimono and cap, was leaning over the rail. “What is it?” she asked quickly.