Clare read it through; her face grew white, and she passed it to Petrovitch. He read it silently, his brow contracting. When he laid the paper down he looked at Clare. She had sunk into a chair, her arms stretched out over her knees to their full length, and her hands clasped.
'Poor fellow! poor Dick!' she said; 'but, oh, Cora! poor Mrs Hatfield! How will she bear it? Oh! how cruel life is to some people. First her daughter, and now her husband, and she is alone in some strange place, where no one can get to her to help her to bear it!'
'How could you help her if you knew where she was?' asked Petrovitch.
'I could tell her myself. I have had grief to bear—I know,' she answered. 'I would save her from hearing it from some careless stranger. I could go to her—'
She broke off. Her hazel eyes were full of tears.
Cora laid her hand on her friend's shoulder with a sympathetic touch.
'I happen to know where this Mrs Hatfield is,' said Petrovitch, reflectively, 'and I agree with you, Miss Stanley, that it would be right for you to go to her.'
Clare rose instantly. As she did so the tears brimmed over, and two fell from her long lashes.
'I will go now,' she said, 'if you will tell me where she is.'
'I will take you to her now, if you like,' said Petrovitch.