Mr. Brewster nodded carelessly. The contents of the chafing-dish had justified the advance advertising of their odour, and he was too busy to be interrupted.
“Put it down. And you needn’t wait, Parker.”
“Very good, sir.”
The valet withdrew, and Mr. Brewster resumed his lunch.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Professor Binstead, to whom a telegram was a telegram.
“It can wait. I get them all day long. I expect it’s from Lucille, saying what train she’s making.”
“She returns to-day?”
“Yes, Been at Miami.” Mr. Brewster, having dwelt at adequate length on the contents of the chafing-dish, adjusted his glasses and took up the envelope. “I shall be glad—Great Godfrey!”
He sat staring at the telegram, his mouth open. His friend eyed him solicitously.
“No bad news, I hope?”