"You don't know Charlotte," said Mr. Barrett, feebly.

"I think I do," was the reply. "However, we'll make sure. I suppose
you've got friends in Melbourne?"

"A few," said Mr. Barrett, guardedly.

"Come down to the post-office and cable to one of them."

Mr. Barrett hesitated. "I'll write," he said, slowly. "It's an awkward
thing to cable; and there's no hurry. I'll write to Jack Adams,
I think."

"It's no good writing," said Miss Lindsay, firmly. "You ought to know
that."

"Why not?" demanded the other.

"Because, you foolish man," said the girl, calmly, "before your letter
got there, there would be one from Melbourne saying that he had been
choked by a fish-bone, or died of measles, or something of that sort."

Mr. Barrett, hardly able to believe his ears, stopped short and looked at
her. The girl's eyes were moist with mirth and her lips trembling. He
put out his hand and took her wrist in a strong grip.

"That's all right," he said, with a great gasp of relief. "_Phew!_ At
one time I thought I had lost you."