"Yes! Let me have the answers the instant they come, will you, Tom?" Then
Harkless turned his face from the wall and spoke through his teeth: "I
mean to see H. Fisbee before many days; I want to talk to him!"

But, though he tossed and fretted himself into what the doctor pronounced
a decidedly improved state, no answer came to either telegram that day or
night. The next morning a messenger boy stumbled up the front steps and
handed the colored man, Jim, four yellow envelopes, night messages. Three
of them were for Harkless, one was for Meredith. Jim carried them
upstairs, left the three with his master's guest, then knocked on his
master's door.

"What is it?" answered a thick voice. Meredith had not yet risen.

"A telegraph. Mist' Tawm."

There was a terrific yawn. "O-o-oh! Slide it--oh--under the--door."

"Yessuh."

Meredith lay quite without motion for several minutes, sleepily watching
the yellow rhomboid in the crevice. It was a hateful looking thing to come
mixing in with pleasant dreams and insist upon being read. After a while
he climbed groaningly out of bed, and read the message with heavy eyes,
still half asleep. He read it twice before it penetrated:

"Suppress all newspapers to-day. Convention meets at eleven. If we succeed
a delegation will come to Rouen this afternoon. They will come.

"HELEN."