“If he were a man in business, as his uncle, old Foliott, is, I could readily understand that interests connected with it might detain him till the last moment. But he is not; he has not an earthly thing to do.”
“Perhaps his lawyers are in fault,” cried Tod. “If they are backward with the deeds of settlement——”
“The deeds were ready a week ago. Foliott said so in writing to my father.”
A silence ensued, rendering the street noises more audible. Suddenly there came a sound of a horse and cab dashing along, and it pulled up at our door. Foliott, of course.
Down we went, helter-skelter, out on the pavement. The servants, busy in the dining-room still, came running to the steps. A gentleman, getting out of the cab with a portmanteau, stared, first at us, then at the house.
“This is not right,” said he to the driver, after looking about him. “It’s next door but one.”
“This is the number you told me, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Made a mistake.”
But so sure did it seem to us that this late and hurried traveller must be, at least, some one connected with Captain Foliott, if not himself, that it was only when he and his luggage had disappeared within the next house but one, and the door was shut, and the cab gone away, that we realized the disappointment, and the vague feeling of discomfort it left behind. The servants went in. We strolled to the opposite side of the street, unconsciously hoping that luck might bring another cab with the right man in it.
“Look there!” whispered Bill, pointing upwards.