"Tell me—the worst!" he said.
"She started with Mr. Englehall about mid-day," Hester said. "They had luggage, but I explained that he was going to Paris, she was coming back by train. At two o'clock we were rung up on the telephone. Their brake had snapped going down the hill by St. Entuiel, and the chauffeur—he is mad now—but they think he lost his nerve. They were dashed into a tree, and—they were both dead—when they were got out from the wreck."
"God in Heaven!" Mannering murmured, white to the lips.
There was a silence between them. Mannering had covered his head with his hands. Hester tried once or twice to speak, but the tears were streaming from her eyes. She had the air of having more to say. The white horror of tragedy was still in her face.
"There is a letter," she said at last. "She left a letter for you."
Mannering rose slowly to his feet and moved to the lamp. Directly he had broken the seal he understood. He read the first line and looked up. His eyes met Hester's.
"Who knows—this?" he asked, hoarsely.
"No one! They had not been gone two hours. I explained everything."
Then Mannering read on.
"My dear Husband: