"Y-e-s," said Cynthia; "she expects it to-night.... Is that some one coming upstairs?"
"Nobody," answered Kent, listening intently.... "No, her train doesn't start till ten. I don't think, in point of fact, that we can look for it to-night. You see——"
"We needn't give up if it hasn't come when we go to bed."
"No; that's what I mean. One must allow for—hark!... no; it's nothing—one must allow for him having to——"
Cynthia uttered a cry.
"It is! Come in—entrez—yes!"
Etienne appeared.
"A letter for monsieur!"
Kent snatched it from his hand; it was from Turquand. He tore it open. Postal orders for six pounds dazzled their eyes. In pencil was scribbled: "Here you are, sonny!—Yours ever, TURK."
Cynthia gave a hysterical laugh. They were say.