Gilbert, lover-like, did his utmost to cheer her, saying what was obviously probable—her father had been unexpectedly delayed, but would be here very soon, and so on—and he spoke with such cheeriness that she gained some confidence from his. But as the days sped by, and Morris Thornton came not nor sent word, her apprehensions increased, and all Gilbert's loving speeches could not allay them. Gilbert, too, began to wonder not a little what it all meant.
It at length became evident to him that there was something peculiarly significant in the non-appearance and silence of Morris Thornton. He spoke what was in his mind to his father, who, in reply, told him the only hypothesis he could form was that Thornton had fallen ill at some point in the course of the journey, though that did not account for nothing being heard of him. Gilbert now learned for the first time of the precarious state of Thornton's health. He agreed with his father that nothing should be said about it to Kitty, as it could not but add to her anxiety.
But what Gilbert had heard made him comply all the more eagerly with a suggestion Kitty offered on the next Sunday, when they were talking on this subject, which temporarily had assumed more importance almost than their love.
This was that a cablegram should be sent to Vancouver to Morris Thornton, asking when she was to expect to see him in London.
Gilbert despatched the cablegram for her from the Central Telegraph Office in the Strand, on his return to town late that evening.
No answer was received by the girl till far on in the afternoon of Monday.
The first thing she noticed on looking at the reply message was that it was not signed by her father, but by his local agent.
Then she read the whole cablegram, which ran—
"Your father sailed from New York for Southampton by St. Louis, July 21. No further advices. Wallace."
"July 21," said Kitty to herself. "Why, he ought to have been here a week ago at least."