“Chris!” she whispered, “is it really you?”
His chubby face creased with joy at the sight of her.
“Yes, miss, it’s me right enough,” he said. “Can you come with me to father? He’s orfly anxious ter see yer, miss.”
“Where is he?”
“Out there in the road, miss, standin’ orf an’ on till I heave in sight. He wouldn’t show up at the hotel, miss, ‘cause ‘is wooden leg sort o’ makes folk stare at ‘im, an’ he don’t want too many people ter know ‘e kem ‘ere to find you.”
“Came to find me—all the way from England? Who sent him?”
They were in the roadway now, and walking fast in the direction of the alameda, or public gardens, where a military band plays each evening for the inhabitants of Las Palmas.
“Bless yer ‘eart, miss, we’ve done a lot more’n come from England,” said Chris. “We’ve followed yer to Scotland, an’ Germany, an’ France, an’ Madeira. But father’ll tell you all about it. My eye, wasn’t’ e pleased w’en our steamer rounded the mole an’ ‘e sighted the San Sowsy. ‘Lord love a duck, Chris,’ sez ‘e, ‘there she is at last. Oo’ll say now that Peter Evans ‘asn’t done as he was tole’!”
Evelyn, in her excitement, still held the boy’s arm. He felt that she was trembling, though her voice was calm.
“Chris,” she repeated, “who sent you?”