Mrs. Leroy bent over the railing, and watched the boy spring up the low steps of the street door, ring the bell violently, and beat an impatient tattoo with his foot.
“Whom do you want?” Sanford called gently.
The boy looked up, and, seeing the two figures on the balcony, answered, “Mr. Henry Sanford. Got a death message.”
“A death message, did he say?” gasped Mrs. Leroy. Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Yes; don’t move.” He laid a hand on her arm and pointed toward the group inside. A quick, sharp contraction rose in his throat. “Sam,” he called in a lowered tone.
“Yaas ’r,—comin’ direc’ly.”
“Sam, there’s a boy at the outside door with a telegram. He says it’s a death message. Get it, and tell the boy to wait. Go quietly, now, and let no one know. You will find me here.”
Mrs. Leroy sank into a chair, her face in her hands. Sanford bent over her, his voice still calm.
“Don’t give way, Kate; we shall know in a moment.”
She grasped his hand and held on. “Oh, who do you suppose it is, Henry? Will Sam never come?”