She could go alone, and alone she went, with one consuming thought as she sped along.
"Oh, momma! Poor momma! This'll about finish her."
And yet when she entered the living-room her mother was sitting, calm and serene, while Mr. Brunt told the tale of the New Jersey marshes. Jennie, white, tearless, terrified, crept up to Gussie, and the two clung together as their mother said, in her steady voice.
"So I understand that only one of them is dead—the Irish one."
Mr. Brunt assented.
"Yes, Flynn, the Irish one."
"I'm not surprised. I told him when he was here the other day that what he called 'law and order' would bring him to grief, as they bring most of us, though I didn't expect it to be so soon. And my son, you say, is in jail."
"At Ellenbrook."
"They'll try him, I suppose."
"I'm afraid so."