"Of course I could," said Ronald, cheerfully. "The motor is at the door. I can catch the two-thirty, if you write the note at once. No need for a cheque. Just write a few lines authorising your bankers to send out the money; I will see them personally; explain the whole thing, and hurry them up. The money shall be in Cairo to-night, if possible." Lady Ingleby went to her davenport. No sound broke the stillness save the rapid scratching of her pen. Then Billy spoke. "I will come with you," he said, hoarsely. "Why do that?" objected Ronald. "You may as well go on in the motor to Overdene, and tell them there." "I am going to town," said Billy, decidedly. Then he walked over to where the telegram still lay on the table. "May I copy this?" he asked of Lady Ingleby. "Do," she said, without looking round. "And Ronnie--you take the original to show them at the bank. Ah, no! I must keep that for Jim. Here is paper. Make two copies, Billy." Billy had already copied the message into his pocket-book. With shaking fingers he copied it again, handing the sheet to Ronald, without looking at him. The note written, Lady Ingleby rose. "Thank you, Ronald," she said. "Thank you, more than I can say. I think you will catch the train. And good-bye, Billy." But Billy was already in the motor. CHAPTER XXII LORD INGLEBY'S WIFE The journey down from town had been as satisfactorily rapid as even Jim Airth could desire. He had caught the train at Charing Cross by five seconds. The hour's run passed quickly in glowing anticipation of that which was being brought nearer by every turn of the wheels. Myra's telegram was drawn from his pocket-book many times. Each word seemed fraught with tender meaning, "_Come to me at once._" It was so exactly Myra's simple direct method of expression. Most people would have said, "Come here," or "Come to Shenstone," or merely "Come." "Come _to me_" seemed a tender, though unconscious, response to his resolution of the night before: "I will arise and go to my belovèd." Now that the parting was nearly over, he realised how terrible had been the blank of three weeks spent apart from Myra. Her sweet personality was so knit into his life, that he needed her--not at any particular time, or in any particular way--but always; as the air he breathed; or as the light, which made the day. And she? He drew a well-worn letter from his pocket-book--the only letter he had ever had from Myra. "I shall always want you," it said; "but I could never send, unless the coming would mean happiness for you." Yet she _had_ sent. Then she had happiness in store for him. Had she instinctively realised his change of mind? Or had she gauged his desperate hunger by her own, and understood that the satisfying of that, _must_ mean happiness, whatever else of sorrow might lie in the background?