I consented,—and while he went over to a table and wrote some letters in preparation for our journey, I looked through the day’s papers. There was nothing to read in them,—for though all the world’s news palpitates into Great Britain on obediently throbbing electric wires, each editor of each little pennyworth, being jealous of every other editor of every other pennyworth, only admits into his columns exactly what suits his politics or personally pleases his taste, and the interests of the public at large are scarcely considered. Poor, bamboozled, patient public!—no wonder it is beginning to think that a halfpenny spent on a newspaper which is only purchased to be thrown away, enough and more than enough. I was still glancing up and down the tedious columns of the Americanized Pall Mall Gazette, and Lucio was still writing, when a page-boy entered with a telegram.
“Mr Tempest?”
“Yes.” And I snatched the yellow-covered missive and tore it open,—and read the few words it contained almost uncomprehendingly. They ran thus—
“Return at once. Something alarming has happened. Afraid to act without you. Mavis Clare.”
A curious chill came over me,—the telegram fell from my hands on the table. Lucio took it up and glanced at it. Then, regarding me stedfastly, he said—
“Of course you must go. You can catch the four-forty train if you take a hansom.”
“And you?” I muttered. My throat was dry and I could scarcely speak.
“I’ll stay at the Grand, and wait for news. Don’t delay a [p 390] moment,—Miss Clare would not have taken it upon herself to send this message, unless there had been serious cause.”
“What do you think—what do you suppose——” I began.
He stopped me by a slight imperative gesture.