“The neighbourhood of Villo, near Turin, has been shocked by a terrible accident, which took place yesterday. Mr. H. Masham, the well-known racing motorist, returning victorious from a competition, in order to avoid a wagon, dashed into a hillside at full speed. The motor turned over completely; he and the chauffeur were pinned underneath. Mr. Masham was dead when extricated, and there are no hopes of the recovery of his companion.”
Mrs. Ramsay made a desperate attempt to hide the paper, but it was impossible to hide her own white face, and Aurea insisted on reading the paragraph. When she had grasped its contents, she turned to her friend for a moment with great, agonised, unseeing eyes, and for the first time in her life of twenty-one years Aurea Morven fainted.
That same hour Mrs. Ramsay despatched a reply-paid telegram to the Italian Hospital, asking for immediate tidings of Mr. Owen, and the answer received was—
“Owen left yesterday—address unknown.”
Well, at any rate, he was still in the land of the living, and from this important fact Miss Morven must extract such comfort as she deserved.
The truth was, that the chauffeur’s injuries were not so severe as had been supposed—a few cuts and bruises, a slight concussion, and a broken collar-bone. His fine constitution had speedily carried him out of the doctor’s hands, and when Wynyard returned to London, it was to find that his sister and her husband had arrived as a part of the great tide that flows annually from the West. Lady Kesters had heard of her brother’s accident in New York, and spent a small fortune in cables, and now they met again, after a separation of six months, with mutual satisfaction; but, in spite of her insistence, Wynyard firmly resisted his sister’s invitation to take up his quarters in Mount Street.
“No, no,” he answered, “that is not in the bond; I’ll get through on my own. I’ve only four months to work off. I can run in and out till I find another place.”
“What about money, my dear boy? Your stay in that Italian hospital must have been expensive.”
“I was heavily insured against accidents; after my first week with Masham—when I realised his style of driving, I took out a policy for fifteen hundred pounds!”
“I wonder you dare get into a motor,” she said. “I don’t see how you can possibly have any nerve left.”