Brookes called Surnoo, and the rickshaw came round.
Madeline looked at her watch.
‘The telegraph office,’ she said; ‘and as quickly as may be.’
As the runners panted over the Mall, up and down and on, Madeline said to herself, ‘She shall have her chance. She shall choose.’
The four reeking Paharis pulled up at the telegraph office, and Madeline sped up the steps. There was a table, with forms printed ‘Indian Telegraphs,’ and the usual bottle of thickened ink and pair of rusty pens. She sat down to her intention as if she dared not let it cool; she wrote her message swiftly, she had worded it on the way.
‘To Mrs. Innes, Dak Bungalow, Solon.
‘From M. Anderson, Simla.
‘Frederick Prendergast died on January 7th, at Sing Sing. Your letter considered confidential if you return. Prendergast left no will.
‘M. Anderson.’
‘Send this “urgent,” Babu,’ she said to the clerk, ‘and repeat it to the railway station, Kalka. Shall I fill up another form? No? Very well.’