She had been wise to yield in time. When she returned to the drawing-room, she found Martial there. He was gazing on the ground, and held an open letter in his hand. But he raised his head when his wife entered the room, and she could detect signs of great emotion in his features. “What has happened?” she faltered.
Martial did not remark her troubled manner. “My father is dead, Blanche,” he replied.
“The Duke de Sairmeuse! Good heavens! how did it happen?”
“He was thrown from his horse in the forest near the Sanguille rocks.”
“Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered.”
“Yes, the very place.”
There was a moment’s silence. Martial’s affection for his father had not been very deep, and he was well aware that the duke had but little love for him. Hence he was astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death. “From this letter, which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I gather that everybody believes it to have been an accident; but I—I——”
“Well?”
“I believe he was murdered.”
An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale. “Murder!” she whispered.