CHAPTER XXVI.
BEGINS WITH A DISAPPOINTMENT, CONTINUES WITH A GREAT RECEPTION, AND ENDS WITH A SERIES OF SURPRISES.
At the breakfast-table next morning a telegram was handed to Redpath. There was nothing unusual in this. On the contrary, it seemed peculiarly natural that telegrams should be frequent visitors at the house of a telegraphist, but it was not so natural that Redpath should first look at the missive with surprise, and then toss it across the table to Sam.
"It is for you, Mr. Shipton."
"For me? Impossible! I am supposed to be dead at home," exclaimed Sam, tearing it open. "Oh, it's from Frank Hedley, and—well, he has been successful after all! Listen, Robin. Excuse me, Mrs. Redpath. May I read it aloud?"
"By all means," answered the pretty little woman, who would probably have answered the same if he had asked leave to go to bed in his boots.
"'Your affair settled'"—continued Sam, reading.
"'Great Eastern starts almost immediately. Come without delay.'"
