'When do you think, sir, that I shall reach Mergatroyd?' asked the young lady.
'That is a question impossible for me to answer,' replied the gentleman; 'as you heard from your friend,'—he emphasized this word and threw sarcasm into his expression—'the guard, there are conditions, about which I know nothing, which will interfere with the punctuality of the train.'
Then he fumbled in his pocket, drew forth an orange-coloured envelope, from this took a scrap of pink paper, and by the expiring evening light read the telegraphic message in large pencil-marks.
'Your uncle lost. Come at once. Salome.'
Salome!—who was Salome?
He replaced the paper in the envelope, which was addressed Philip Pennycomequick, care of Messrs. Pinch and Squeeze, Solicitors, Nottingham.
The message was a brief one—too brief to be intelligible.
Lost—how was Mr. Jeremiah Pennycomequick lost?
When the train drew up at a small station, the young man returned to the down side, by the lady, let down the glass and called the guard.
'Here! what did you say about the flood? I have seen it mentioned in the paper, but I did not understand that it had been at Mergatroyd.'