"Yes I shall. And as to trouble, Isaac, I think it's doing me a kindness. I have been in a cross-grained mood all day, for want perhaps of something to do."
Sir Isaac wrote the message, and Frederick started with it, leaping down the slopes buoyant as a schoolboy. It was a sensible relief, perhaps, to what he had called his cross-grained mood. He had only a short walk; for the railway had now been extended from Lexington, and its small station was not far from the lodge gates of Castle Wafer.
Mr. St. John entered the little telegraph office. He gave in his message, and was exchanging a few words with the clerk, when the rustle of petticoats was heard, and a female voice addressed the clerk in hurried accents. Mr. St. John at the moment was behind the partition, and unseen by the newcomer.
"Young man, can I send a telegraph off at once? It's in a hurry."
"You can send a telegram," responded the clerk. "Where's it to?"
"Paris."
"What's the message?"
"I've wrote it down here, so that there may be no mistake. It's quite private, if you please, and must be kept so: a little matter that don't concern anybody. And be particular, for it's from Castle Wafer. Will it be in Paris tonight?"
"Yes," said the clerk, confidently, as he counted the words.
"What's to pay?"