So the next morning, after Curtis had, according to his custom, gone downtown, being in the invalid’s sick chamber, she began to act in a mysterious manner. She tiptoed to the door, closed it and approached Mr. Linden’s bedside with the air of one about to unfold a strange story.
“Whist now,” she said, with her finger on her lips.
“What is the matter?” asked the invalid, rather alarmed.
“Can you bear a surprise, sir?”
“Have you any bad news for me?”
“No; it’s good news, but you must promise not to tell Curtis.”
“Is it about Florence? Your messenger can hardly have reached Chicago.”
“He isn’t going there, sir.”
“But you promised that he should,” said Mr. Linden, disturbed.
“I’ll tell you why, sir. Florence is not in Chicago.”