“I’ve just heard from Von Ibn,” he said briefly.
“Is that letter from him?”
“No; he’s not writing any letters these days.”
“Oh—” she began, and then stopped.
He kept his back towards her, and then, after a short pause:
“He’s going all to pieces,” he said in a low tone, very slowly.
“Oh—” she exclaimed again, and again stopped.
“I reckon he’s pretty badly off; he’s got beyond himself. He’s—well, he’s—. Rosina, the long and short of it is, he’s gone crazy!”
She rose slowly out of her seat, her face deadly white, her finger-nails turned cruelly into her palms.
“Jack!” she stammered; “Jack!”