y gazed at her.

"Oh, Billy! Oh, Ronald!" she said, "_He didn't do it!_ Oh think what this
will mean to Jim Airth. Stop the boy! Quick! Bring me a telegram form. I
must send for him at once.... Oh, Jim, Jim!.... He said he would give his
life for the relief of the moment when some one should step into the tent
and tell him he had not done it; and now I shall be that 'some one'!....
Oh, _how_ do you spell 'Piccadilly'.... Please call Groatley. If we lose
no time, he may catch the three o'clock express.... Groatley, tell the
boy to take this telegram and have it sent off immediately. Give him
half-a-crown, and say he may keep the change.... Now boys.... Shut the
door!"

The whirlwind of excitement was succeeded by sudden stillness. Lady
Ingleby sank upon the sofa, burying her face for a moment in the
cushions.

In the silence they heard the telegraph boy disappearing rapidly into the
distance, ringing his bell a very unnecessary number of times. When it
could be heard no longer, Lady Ingleby lifted her head.

"Michael is alive," she said.

"Great Scot!" exclaimed Ronnie, and took a step forward.

Billy made no sound, but he turned very white; backed to the door, and
leaned against it for support.

"Think what it means to Jim Airth!" said Lady Ingleby. "Think of the
despair and misery through which he passed; and, after all, he had not
done it."

"May we see?" asked Ronald eagerly, holding out his hand for the
telegram.

Billy licked his dry lips, but no sound would come.

"Read it," said Myra.

Ronald took the telegram and read it aloud.

"_To Lady Ingleby, Shenstone Park, Shenstone, England._

"_Reported death a mistake. Taken prisoner Targai. Escaped. Arrived
Cairo. Large bribes and rewards to pay. Cable five hundred pounds
to Cook's immediately._

"_Michael Veritas._"

"Great Scot!" said Ronnie again.

Billy said nothing; but his eyes never left Lady Ingleby's radiant face.

"Think what it will mean to Jim Airth," she repeated.

"Er--yes," said Ronnie. "It considerably changes the situation--for him.
What does 'Veritas' mean?"

"That," replied Lady Ingleby "is our private code, Michael's and mine. My
mother once wired to me in Michael's name, and to Michael in mine--dear
mamma occasionally does eccentric things--and it made complications.
Michael was very much annoyed; and after that we took to signing our
telegrams 'Veritas,' which means: 'This is really from me.'"

"Just think!" s