“I’m so glad Mr. Burthon had no hand in it!”
“Bah!” sneered Cumberford; “Burthon is a liar. I don’t believe a word of his lame excuse.”
“Nor I,” added Stephen, gravely. “Tyler is a hired assassin, that’s all. I think Burthon is frightened, and wishes to throw us off the track and put the blame on his tool, before running away.”
“I hope that is a lie, too—about his running away,” said Mr. Cumberford. “If Burthon escapes scot-free I shall be greatly disappointed. But the fellow is so tricky that if he says he is going you may rest assured he means to stay.”
“I think not, Daddy,” remarked Sybil, in her cold, even tones. “My uncle is in earnest this time and I doubt if you ever see or hear of George Burthon again.”
A knock at the door startled the little group. Mr. Cumberford stepped forward and opened it to find a tall, blue-eyed young man standing in the hall. He recognized Mr. Radley-Todd—the Tribune reporter—at once, and said stiffly:
“You are intruding, sir. I left word at the office that Miss Kane and I would see the newspaper men at eight o’clock, but not before.”
He started to close the door, but Chesty Todd inserted one long leg into the opening, smiling pleasantly as he said:
“This isn’t a newspaper errand; let me in.”
Mr. Cumberford let him in, throwing wide the door, for there was an earnest ring in the young fellow’s voice that could not be denied.