He felt that this was his fault, irremediably; Mr. Tyler thought—perhaps, more truly—that it was his. Jane, in a morbid probing of first causes, thought the blame was all hers from the beginning, for ferreting out too well the secret of the Fortune of the Indies. So it was not a very gay party that dined in the lofty salon of the hotel and walked aimlessly down the green bund.
Then there came a telegram, a telegram succinct but not to be understood. Mr. Tyler laid it before Mr. Bolliver with a gesture hopeful but hesitant. The message was from Changhow, and ran thus:
Got one boy one baby do you want?
"It seems hardly possible," Mr. Tyler said, "that such a telegram should be sent me if there were not some foundation for it, but—but the description isn't right."
"One boy," Mr. Bolliver mused. "They certainly wouldn't call Alan a baby."
"I should think not!" Jane burst out, scornfully.
"Then what about the baby?" Mr. Bolliver queried, hopelessly. "Jane, do you think it at
