Dear Mrs Hoste:
There is very bad news to tell, which regards Mrs Carhayes. Please follow the bearer at once.
Yours truly, Henry Shelton.
“Quick—what is it—the ‘bad news’? I can bear it—Quick—you are killing me,” gasped Eanswyth, speaking now in a dry whisper.
One look at his accomplice convinced Shelton that he would have to take the whole matter into his own hands.
“Try and be brave, Mrs Carhayes,” he said gravely. “It concerns your husband.”
“Is he—is he—is it the worst!” she managed to get out.
“It is the worst,” he answered simply, deeming it best to get it over as soon as possible.
For a minute he seemed to have reason to congratulate himself on this idea. The rigid stony horror depicted on her features relaxed, giving way to a dazed, bewildered expression, as though she had borne the first brunt of the shock, and was calming down.
“Tell me!” she gasped at length. “How was it? When? Where?”
“It was across the Bashi. They were cut off by the Kafirs, and killed.”
“‘They’? Who—who else?”