A MESSAGE FROM YOOTHA.
It was seven in the morning when Preston was awakened by his servant, Tom, and handed a telegram which had just arrived.
Before he opened it he guessed it must be from Yootha. It ran as follows:
“I am in great trouble. Can you possibly come to me? I am alone here and ill in bed. Jessica and the others have left Monte Carlo. Do please telegraph a reply as soon as this reaches you.”
Preston was not a man to deliberate. He always made up his mind at once, and acted without hesitation.
“Is the messenger waiting?” he asked Tom, who still stood at his bedside.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then give me a foreign telegram form.”
Swiftly he scribbled the answer.
“Give that to the boy,” he said, “and sixpence for himself, and tell him to get back to the post office as quickly as he can. Then come back to me.”