“If you'd like to see it with your own eyes,” said Larcher, “let me send him to you for the news.”
“Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York.”
Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys to anybody. “Well,” said he, “in that case, Murray Davenport shall be made happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon.”
“And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it,” cried Edna. “Flo, you must be here for the news, if I have to go in a hansom and kidnap you.”
“I think I can come voluntarily,” said Florence, smiling through her tears.
“And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea get cold. I must have another cup.” And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot water.
The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and laughter; the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous cause of love and truth against the old, old foes—mercenary design, false appearance, and mistaken duty.
Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make. Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day.
“I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room,” he said to the negro boy at the door.
“All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there,” replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand.