For the telegram read:
Shall arrive Yellow Dog nine to-night; your trunk with me.
E. Carrington.
John Carrington, his abused leg stretched out on a chair in front of him, was smoking a final cigar for the night, in the big downstairs bedroom.
He was resting one elbow on his desk; and the head that leaned upon his hand was full of plans for his son’s future. He was safe upstairs, thank God! He was snug in bed and sleeping when his father got home. And he left him to sleep off his fatigue, though he was impatient to talk with him.
The clock over the fireplace chimed the half hour after nine. There was the sound of quick steps on the veranda, then in the hall. A murmur of voices. One was Trevanion’s. “The room at the head of the hall,” he heard his undertone. Some one ran up the stairs, and some one closed the hall door gently and went down the steps.
John Carrington was out in the hall the next instant. He heard the door of Ned’s room open. He stumped up the stairs.
Light came through a half-opened door. A murmur of voices and laughing greeting came to him.
Ned, fully dressed, as though he were the newcomer, had his arms around some one who was sitting up in bed.
“Dear old girl! What a brick you are!” Carrington heard Ned say. “Trevanion told me.”
“Ned!” he cried, uncomprehendingly.