In his room at the Thorndike Hotel he was reading a telegram that said:
"Come at once. Fedora is ill—perhaps dying."
His handsome face grew grave and troubled. Throwing down the telegram, he sought his manager.
"Every engagement for this week must be canceled. I must go South on the first train."
"But, my dear Mr. Chainey, the loss will amount to thousands of dollars," expostulated the reluctant manager.
"No matter; let the loss be mine. A—some one—is—ill—dying. I must go."
"I am very sorry. We were having a splendid success here," sighed the manager; but his regrets did not deter the young man from going.
Two hours after Kathleen had left Boston, he drove up to the same station where she had taken the train for the South, and entered another one going in the same direction.
Meanwhile, Susette sauntered back to Beacon Street with the message Kathleen had dictated—she would be at home later on.
Mrs. Carew was indignant. She had been planning to take Kathleen away by the noon train. Her trunk, already strapped and corded, stood in the hall.