She scarcely heeded him. Her eyes, fixed on his face, were dilated with fear and dread, her lips white and apart with suspense.
“Tell me,” she murmured. “It is something to do with Jack?”
“It is,” he said. “It is.”
“He is dead!” she breathed.
And her eyes closed, as a shudder ran through her frame.
“Would to Heaven he had died, ere this night’s work,” said Stephen, in a low, fierce voice. “No; I have told you the truth. I left him well and—Heaven forgive him—happy.”
Una drew a long breath, and smiled wearily.
“What can you have to tell me about him that is so dreadful, if he is alive and happy?”
“He is alive, but he must be dead to you, dear Una,” said Stephen.
“Dead to me!” repeated Una, as if the words had no meaning for her. “Dead to me! I—I do not understand.”