Mr. Price, white and breathless, rose and confronted him.
“The beauty o' that is, as Bill says,” continued Mr. Spriggs, with much enjoyment, “that Gussie'll 'ave to set out on his travels again. He'll have to go into hiding, because if they catch him he'll 'ave to finish his time. And Bill says if he writes letters to any of us it'll only make it easier to find him. You'd better take the first train to Australia, Gussie.”
“What—what time did you post—the letter?” inquired Uncle Gussie, jerkily.
“'Bout two o'clock,” said Mr. Spriggs, glaring aft the clock. “I reckon you've just got time.”
Mr. Price stepped swiftly to the small sideboard, and, taking up his hat, clapped it on. He paused a moment at the door to glance up and down the street, and then the door closed softly behind him. Mrs. Spriggs looked at her husband.
“Called away to Australia by special telegram,” said the latter, winking. “Bill White is a trump; that's what he is.”
“Oh, George!” said his wife. “Did you really write that letter?”
Mr. Spriggs winked again.
[THE TEST]
