Chilcote turned. “Confound Crapham!” he exclaimed. “Go and open the door yourself.”
Allsopp hesitated, his dignity struggling with his obedience. As he waited, the bell sounded again.
“Did you hear me?” Chilcote said.
“Yes, sir.” Allsopp crossed the hall.
As the door was opened Chilcote passed his handkerchief from one hand to the other in the tension of hope and fear; then, as the sound of his own name in the shrill tones of a telegraph-boy reached his ears, he let the handkerchief drop to the ground.
Allsopp took the yellow envelope and carried it to his master.
“A telegram, sir,” he said. “And the boy wishes to know if there is an answer.” Picking up Chilcote's handkerchief, he turned aside with elaborate dignity.
Chilcote's hands were so unsteady that he could scarcely insert his finger under the flap of the envelope. Tearing off a corner, he wrenched the covering apart and smoothed out the flimsy pink paper.
The message was very simple, consisting of but seven words:
“Shall expect you at eleven to-night.-LODER.”