“Did you do it?”
“No; I told her not to be a little fool, put them down on the table, and came away.”
“Rebecca, I fear you have made a grave mistake. I did not send Cinthia anything. I intended to purchase a gift for her, but—I was—so troubled—I quite forgot it.”
Mrs. Flint studied a moment, then frankly admitted that the boy who brought the flowers had not said Mr. Dawn sent them, in fact, had merely said, “For Miss Cinthia,” and she had jumped at the conclusion that they came from her brother.
“They must have come from Arthur Varian. I take this very ill of him after what I said to him this morning,” angrily. “Are you sure,” he continued, “that no letter accompanied the flowers?”
“I did not see any,” the old lady replied, uneasily.
Everard Dawn was more versed in the ways of romantic lovers than his prosaic sister, so he said, with a troubled air:
“You may be sure that a sentimental note accompanied the gift, and they may possibly have planned an elopement this very night. I desire that you will lock her door on the outside without her knowledge when you retire to-night.”
“Very well,” she replied, and obeyed him to the letter.
Recalling all this, the thought came to him that perhaps Cinthia, finding her door locked, was indulging herself in a fit of hysterics.