"You really must allow me!" said Mrs Macmichel.
There was quite a scuffle at the door as to which should go out first.
It was the younger and stronger woman who dashed across the hall and snatched the telegram from the boy upon the steps. She came back, crushing the orange envelope, unopened, in her hand. Full well she knew its contents. The authorities had not waited for the father's inquiry, but had wired the news.
"It was—was for me," she said, gasping out the intelligence.
The dark eyes of the elder woman questioned her sharply. "How strange—how very strange it should have been sent on here!"
"My husband knew I was coming to make—a long call. He sent it on."
Mrs Jones sat down again before her tea-tray, and in the speaking eyes was a dawning of suspicion—"I hope nothing is the matter?" she said. "You will read your telegram, Mrs Macmichel?"
Mrs Macmichel thrust the envelope into the pocket of her coat, and kept her hand upon it there. "It is from my dressmaker; she is always bothering," she said.
"But are you sure, as you have not read it?"
"Quite sure. I always know when they come from her."