“No. I thought perhaps Father would not wish it. And I had no opportunity . . . Oh, dear! there is someone at the door again! Who is it?”
Johnson's voice replied. “It is me, Miss Mabel,” he said. “The telegraph person says he can't wait any longer. He 'asn't 'ad his supper. And there is a twenty-five-cent charge for bringing the message, Miss.”
“Tell him he must wait a minute longer,” I answered, for her. “Miss Colton, it seems to me that, whether we can do anything or not, we should know the particulars. Tell that man—Phineas Cahoon, the depot master, I suppose it is—that there is an answer and he must wait for it. Now let's consult that code.”
She took the code book and I picked up a sheet of paper and a pencil from the table.
“We must ask him to send all the particulars,” I declared. “Look up 'send' in the code, Miss Colton.”
She was turning the pages of the little book when the butler knocked once more.
“He says he can't send any message until morning, Miss Mabel. The telegraph office closes at eight o'clock.”
The code book fell to the table. Miss Colton stared helplessly at me.
“What SHALL we do?” she breathed.
I rose to my feet. “Wait, Johnson,” I called. “Make that man wait a moment longer. Miss Colton, I have an idea. Would your father be willing to—but, that is silly! Of course he would! I'll see Cahoon myself.”