When they were all seated cosily around the tea-table, Mrs. Wilders's man brought in a great dispatch upon a salver.
"For Mr. Faulks," he said, and with an air of the greatest importance the hard-worked, indispensable official tore open the cover.
It contained a few hurried lines from Sir Humphrey Fothergill to the following effect:—
"A telegram has just been received from Lord Raglan. It contains painful news for you; but I thought it best to let you have it at once."
He opened the telegram with trembling hands and read—
"Yesterday, Mr. McKay, of the quartermaster-general's staff, ventured through the enemy's lines in the direction of the Tchernaya to make a special reconnaissance. He unfortunately was captured. I sent a flag of truce into Sebastopol, asking that he might be exchanged, but have been peremptorily refused. Gortschakoff asserts that he is a Russian subject and was taken red-handed as a spy. He is to be executed immediately. Will renew request with strong protest, but fear there is no hope."
Mr. Faulks groaned heavily and let the telegram fall on the ground.
"What has happened?" asked Mrs. Wilders, eagerly.
"You were right—too right. That poor boy—"
"Stanislas?"