let the cat out of the bag."

John Steele spoke no word; his face was set, immovable; his lashes
shaded his eyes. A flood of traffic at a corner held them; he appeared
attentive only for it. The wheels pounded and rattled; the whips snapped
and cracked.

"You mean he has proposed for her hand and she--" Steele seemed to speak
with difficulty--"has consented?"

The noise almost drowned the question but Sir Charles heard.

"Well, not exactly. She appears complaisant, as it were," he answered.
"But really, I shouldn't have mentioned the matter at all; quite
premature, you understand. Let's say no more about it. And--what was it
you said about going back with me?"

"Yes," said John Steele with a sudden strength and energy that Sir
Charles might attribute to the desire to make himself understood above
the din of the street. "I'll go back with you at"--the latter words,
lower spoken, the other did not catch--"no matter what cost!"

Sir Charles dodged a vehicle; he did not observe the light, the fire,
the sudden play of fierce, dark passion on his companion's face.

"Good!" he said. "And when you get tired of 'books in the running
brooks'--"

Steele's hand closed on his arm. "When do you leave?" he asked abruptly.