"Where is he?"
Wrayson took a seat by her side upon the sofa.
"You do not read the newspapers?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Not much. My eyes are not very good, and it tires me to read."
"I am afraid," he said gently, "that it will be bad news."
A little sob caught in her throat.
"Go on," she faltered.
"He is dead," Wrayson said simply.
She fainted quietly away.