Captain Dan rose. “I will,” he declared. “I'll do it right now, this minute. Not till I see you to your tea, Serena,” he added, hastily. “I'll tell Zuba about that first, of course.”
He sent the telegram within the hour. It was an inquiry concerning Mr. Doane's whereabouts, his employer's health, how he was getting on, and when he—John—was to return to Scarford. The answer arrived, via telephone, about eight that evening. It was a surprising answer.
“Doane gone to San Francisco on business of the firm,” it said. “Left at midnight yesterday.”
It was signed by the senior partner. Serena had gone out, of course; she was scarcely ever in now, but Gertrude, having finished dinner, was in her room as usual. Her father hurried up the stairs.
“Gertie,” he cried, entering without knocking, “Gertie, what do you suppose I've just found out? It's the most astonishing news. John is—he has—Why, you'd never guess!”
Gertrude, who was sitting in the rocking chair by the window, showed her first sign of interest. At the mention of the name she turned quickly.
“What?” she cried, in a startled voice. “What? Is it—is it bad news? He isn't—isn't—”
“No, no! No, no! He's all right. Don't look like that, you scare me. John's all right; that is, I suppose he is. But he—Here! read it yourself.”
Gertrude took the paper upon which he had written the message. She read the latter through; read it and reread it. Then she turned to her father.
“But I can't understand,” she faltered. “I can't—I can't understand. He didn't send this himself. He has gone to San Francisco; but—but this is signed by someone else. What does it mean?”