"Has anything happened, Joyce?" asks her sister quickly. She has had her suspicions, of course, but they were of the vaguest order.
Joyce laughs.
"I told you your nerves were out of order," says she. "What should happen? Are you still dwelling on the running over business? I assure you you wrong Freddy. He can take care of himself at a crossing as well as another man, and better. Even a hansom, I am convinced, could do no harm to Freddy."
"I wasn't thinking of him," says Barbara, a little reproachfully, perhaps. "I——"
"No. Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Here he is," cries she suddenly, springing to her feet as the sound of Monkton's footsteps ascending the stairs can now be distinctly heard. "I hope you will explain yourself to him." She laughs again, and disappears through the doorway that leads to the second hall outside, as Monkton enters.
"How late you are, Freddy," says his wife, the reproach in her voice heightened because of the anxiety she had been enduring. "I thought you would never——What is it? What has happened? Freddy! there is bad news."
"Yes, very bad," says Monkton, sinking into a chair.
"Your brother——" breathlessly. Of late, she has always known that trouble is to be expected from him.
"He is dead," says Monkton in a low tone.
Barbara, flinging her opera cloak aside, comes quickly to him. She leans over him and slips her arms round his neck.