“What does he say?” asked Evelyn in a harsh, dry tone. “Does he say he is very sorry, and it serves us right? That is the correct attitude, I should think.”
Madge put a cigarette in his lips.
“Won’t you smoke?” she asked.
“No, it doesn’t taste. It’s like smoking in a tunnel. About Philip now?”
“He doesn’t take the correct attitude,” said she. “If he had, how could I have wanted to talk to you about him? He wants to help us, Evelyn. And he will arrive here to-night, unless we stop him on his way at Inverness or Golspie.”
The corners of his mouth were compressed; she knew he was frowning.
“Philip?” he said. “That isn’t Philip.”
“It wasn’t perhaps,” said Madge, “but it is, I think. Things have happened—Mr. Merivale is dead. Philip was there.”
“Dead?” he asked.
“Yes; I only know about it from Philip. Oh, yes, you have guessed right. I can only tell you what he said. Mr. Merivale died because—because sorrow, pain were revealed to him. He died very suddenly—that I gather, and he died terribly, somehow. I know no more than what I tell you.”