“Yes, and the way he brought out poor Jack Armitage that time! It was a doosid plucky thing.”
“I say, what’s this about Claverton being killed?” exclaimed another voice, whose owner had evidently just joined the group. “I see the telegram says he may have been taken prisoner.”
The first speaker shook his head ominously.
“Kafirs don’t take prisoners,” he said. “If they do, so much the worse for the prisoners. No, sir. Claverton would fight like the devil, but he’d never let those brutes take him alive, you may safely bet your bottom dollar on that. Poor chap! Hot, isn’t it? Let’s go and liquor.”
They moved off, and Lilian stood there feeling as if the whole world had suddenly given way beneath her feet. Then she remembered that the newspaper office was but a few yards off. With swaying and uneven steps she made her way there. A boy was standing at the counter, rapidly folding copy after copy of the morning’s edition.
“I want a paper, please. One with the very latest telegrams.”
Lilian was surprised at her own calmness; but her ashy face and quivering lips might have told their own tale.
“Yes, mum,” said the boy, handing her one of those lying on the counter, and with it a small, printed slip. “Latest from the front—an officer killed.”
The words beat like a sledge-hammer in her brain, but she managed to stagger out of the shop. The whole street—vehicles, passengers, trees, everything—seemed to go round before her as she strained her eyes upon the printed words of that fatal slip.