Instead of replying, Blake dropped into his chair and buried his face in his arms. Griffith hovered over him, gazing worriedly at the big heaving shoulders.
"Must say you're mighty talkative," he at last remarked, and he started toward the door. "Good-night."
"Wait!" panted Blake. "Read it!"
Griffith took the note, which was thrust out to him, and read it through twice.
"Huh," he commented. "She wasn't so awfully sudden over it. 'Bout time,
I'd say."
"Shut up!" cried Blake, flinging himself erect in the chair, to beam upon his friend. "You've no license to kick, you old grouch. I'm coming to bed. But wait till to-morrow afternoon. Maybe the fur won't fly on old Zariba!"
"Come on, then. I'll get your sulphonal."
"You will—not! No more dope in mine, Grif. I've got something a thousand per cent better."
"She ought to've come through with it at the start-off," grumbled
Griffith. But he gladly accompanied his friend to the bedroom.
In the morning Blake awoke from a profound natural sleep, clear-eyed and clear-brained. His first act was to telephone to a florist's to send their largest crimson amaryllis to Miss Genevieve Leslie.