Chapter 4

“Fair speech is more rare than the emerald found by slave maidens on the pebbles.”—Ptah-Hotep.

At ten o’clock, next morning, I was summoned from my sleep by the bell of the telephone beside my bed. It was not a pleasant sleep, although I had not returned to my apartment until dawn. Nightmare doubts galloped ruthless hoofs over any repose.

Phillida’s voice came over the wire to me like the morning song of a bird.

“Good-morning, Cousin Roger. We are going to take the train in a few moments. But I could not leave New York without telling you how happy I am. Are you—did I wake you up? I was afraid that I might, but Ethan said you would like me to call, even so.”

“My dear, it was the kindest thought you ever had,” I told her fervently.

“Was it?” she hesitated. “Then—were they pretty dreadful to you at home?”

“Quite!”

“Do you suppose they will do anything dreadful about us?”

“No. Nothing.”

It did not seem necessary to tell her that Aunt Caroline did not know where the runaways had gone, and was thereby debarred from hasty action. Phillida’s father had privately agreed with me in this.