Part 13 (2/2)

”Well, my girl,” said he. ”Now I suppose we had better begin our job.”

They went out to the carriage. Just as they were getting in, the ancient porter hurried after them.

”There's some people come by that train for you, sir.”

The Lintons turned. A thin man, with sad Irish eyes, was limping out of the station. Behind him came two girls.

”Why, it's Con!” Norah cried.

”It is, miss,” said the chauffeur. ”And the gerrls I have with me--Bridie and Katty.”

”But you didn't write,” Mr. Linton said.

”Well, indeed, I was that rushed, an' we gettin' off,” said Con. ”But I give Patsy Burke the money and towld him to send the wire. But 'tis the way with Patsy he'll likely think it'll do in a day or two as well as any time.” And as a matter of fact, the telegram duly arrived three days later--by which time the new arrivals had shaken down, and there seemed some prospect of domestic peace in the Home for Tired People.

CHAPTER VI

KIDNAPPING

Mrs. Hunt came slowly down the steps of a Park Lane mansion, now used as an officers' hospital. She was tired and dispirited; her steps dragged as she made her way towards Piccadilly. Beneath her veil her pretty face showed white, with lines of anxiety deepening it.

An officer, hurrying by, stopped and came eagerly to speak to her.

”How are you, Mrs. Hunt? And how's the Major?”

”Not very well,” said Mrs. Hunt, answering the second part of the question. ”The operation was more successful than any he has had yet, but there has been a good deal of pain, and he doesn't seem to pick up strength. The doctors say that his hand now depends a good deal upon his general health: he ought to live in the country, forget that there's a war on, and get thoroughly fit.” She sighed. ”It's so easy for doctors to prescribe these little things.”

”Yes--they all do it,” said the other--a captain in Major Hunt's regiment. ”May I go to see him, do you think?”

”Oh, do,” Mrs. Hunt answered. ”It will cheer him up; and anything that will do that is good. He's terribly depressed, poor old boy.”

She said good-bye, and went on wearily.

It was a warm afternoon for October. Norah Linton and her father had come up to London by an early train, and, after much shopping, had lunched at a little French restaurant in Soho, where they ate queer dishes and talked exceedingly bad French to the pretty waitress. It was four o'clock when they found themselves at the door of a dingy building in Bloomsbury.

”Floor 3, the Hunts' flat, Daddy,” said Norah, consulting a note-book.

”I suppose there is a lift.”

There was a lift, but it was out of order; a grimy card, tucked into the lattice of the doorway, proclaimed the fact. So they mounted flight after flight of stairs, and finally halted before a doorway bearing Major Hunt's card. A slatternly maid answered their ring.

”Mrs. Hunt's out,” she said curtly. ”Gorn to see the Mijor.”

”Oh--will she be long?”

”Don't think so--she's gen'lly home about half-past four. Will yer wait?”

Norah looked at her father.

<script>