And they were 7s. 6d., 7s., when the market opened that morning. What did it mean, and at what price had he, or rather, had Dolly, bought them?
He knew from whom the telephonic message had come. He dashed into his office and rang up the man, a member of a West End firm of brokers.
"Eight shillings," was the reply. "Congratulate you. Your profit already will pay for your honeymoon and a little more besides. Of course you'll sell. It's a market rig, and I happen to be in the know."
Sell? Of course he would. A profit of over £1,800 would recoup him for his loss of that morning, and leave him a handsome balance in the bargain.
"Dolly, dearest," he whispered that night, "the rosebuds are all right. The old church shall be smothered in them from end to end."
And so it was, but like a prudent man he never explained that but for Dolly's unconscious assistance there might have been no roses and perhaps very little honeymoon. He was afraid Dolly might want to help him again!
A TALE OF SIMLA.
BY DR. HELEN BOURCHIER.
There was a dinner-party that night at the lieutenant-governor's, and those of the governed who had followed him from his territory of Lahore up to Simla were bidden to the feast. In one of the pretty private sitting-rooms of the Bellevue Hotel three ladies were discussing chiffons in connection with that function.