“No, sir.” . . . But he could. It came to him suddenly, huge and annihilating, swamping in the space of a second all the uneasiness and terror that had shadowed him in the night. Those things were nothing . . . nothing.
“Oh, sir . . . my mother . . .”
“Yes. . . It’s your mother, Ingleby. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Very sorry. . . .”
“Tell me, sir. She’s dead. Oh . . . she’s dead . . . ?”
Mr. Selby unfolded the telegram although he already knew its contents.
“No. It’s not so bad as that. But she’s ill . . . very ill . . .”
“I knew. . . . The minute you spoke I knew, sir. . . .”
“You had better catch the eight o’clock train at the Downs station. You need only take your little bag. You can get it from the matron!’
“Yes, sir. . . .”
“Have you any money?” Mr. Selby almost smiled to see him so eager to go.