eyes, upset all his preconceived opinions; he had expected grit and courage in the boy—­there couldn’t help being that when one thought of his father—­but where did the lad get his imagination?  Richard wondered—­that which millions could not purchase.  “A most engaging young man in spite of his madcap life,” he said to himself—­“I don’t wonder St. George loves him.”

When the bell in the old church struck the hour of ten, Harry again turned to Richard and said with a sigh of disappointment: 

“I’m afraid it’s too late to expect him—­don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I fear so,” rejoined Richard, who all through the dinner had never ceased to bend his ear to every sound, hoping for the rumble of wheels or the quick step of a man in the hall.  “Something extraordinary must have happened to him, or he may have been called suddenly to Richmond and taken the steamboat.”  Then leaning toward his host he called across the table:  “Might I make a suggestion, St. George?”

St. George paused in his talk with Mr. Kennedy and Latrobe and raised his head: 

“Well, Richard?”

“I was just saying to young Rutter here, that perhaps Mr. Poe has been called suddenly to Richmond and has sent you a note which has not reached you.”

“Or he might be ill,” suggested Harry in his anxiety to leave no loophole through which the poet could escape.

“Or he might be ill,” repeated Richard—­“quite true.  Now would you mind if I sent Malachi to Guy’s to find out?”

“No, Richard—­but I’ll send Todd.  We can get along, I expect, with Malachi until he gets back.  Todd!”

“Yes, sah.”

“You go to Guy’s and ask Mr. Lampson if Mr. Poe is still in the hotel.  If he is not there ask for any letter addressed to me and then come back.  If he is in, go up to his room and present my compliments, and say we are waiting dinner for him.”

Todd’s face lengthened, but he missed no word of his master’s instructions.  Apart from these his mind was occupied with the number of minutes it would take him to run all the way to Guy’s Hotel, mount the steps, deliver his message, and race back again.  Malachi, who was nearly twice his age, and who had had twice his experience, might be all right until he reached that old Burgundy, but “dere warn’t nobody could handle dem corks but Todd; Malachi’d bust ’em sho’ and spile ’em ‘fo’ he could git back.”

“’Spose dere ain’t no gemman and no letter, den what?” he asked as a last resort.

“Then come straight home.”

“Yes, sah,” and he backed regretfully from the room and closed the door behind him.

St. George turned to Horn again:  “Very good idea, Richard—­wonder I hadn’t thought of it before.  I should probably had I not expected him every minute.  And he was so glad to come.  He told me he had never forgotten the dinner at Kennedy’s some years ago, and when he heard you would be here as well, his whole face lighted up.  I was also greatly struck with the improvement in his appearance, he seemed more a man of the world than when I first knew him—­carried himself better and was more carefully dressed.  This morning when I went in he—­”