When his confidential maid-of-all-work, the aged Elspeth,
tried to insinuate that the whole thing might be a hoax--
"Not a bit of it!" said he. "Don't I know my man? Isn't it
just like him? Travel through the air! There, now, he's
jealous of the eagles, next! No! I warrant you, he'll not
do it! I'll find a way to stop him! He! why if they'd let
him alone, he'd start some day for the moon!"
On that very evening Kennedy, half alarmed, and half
exasperated, took the train for London, where he arrived
next morning.
Three-quarters of an hour later a cab deposited him at
the door of the doctor's modest dwelling, in Soho Square,
Greek Street. Forthwith he bounded up the steps and
announced his arrival with five good, hearty, sounding
raps at the door.
Ferguson opened, in person.
"Dick! you here?" he exclaimed, but with no great
expression of surprise, after all.
"Dick himself!" was the response.
"What, my dear boy, you at London, and this the
mid-season of the winter shooting?"
"Yes! here I am, at London!"
"And what have you come to town for?"
"To prevent the greatest piece of folly that ever was
conceived."
"Folly!" said the doctor.
"Is what this paper says, the truth?" rejoined Kennedy,
holding out the copy of the Daily Telegraph, mentioned above.
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