But at this point he must certainly have been surprised; for he sprang from his chair with an exclamation.
It was not to be wondered at; for with a bang and a rush, the man who had just left the room returned to it. He had a paper in his hand—the first edition of an evening paper.
“She has killed him!” cried Captain Lyman. “Lucy has killed him—my sister—there it is—and I didn’t know that she was in England. She must have read about the case and come across! Oh, my God! she has killed him, and I remember her when she was a little girl with golden hair lying in her cot—as innocent as a lamb. Oh, damn him! but he’s in hell now—thank God there’s a hell for him—thank——”
The room was not big enough for the curses that welled up in the big heart of the sailor. The atmosphere became impregnated in a moment with the smell of turpentine and bilge-water, and a freshly opened consignment of flour of sulphur.
Mr. Liscomb had snatched the paper from him. Jack glanced over his shoulder while he read. Priscilla sat down. Her face had become deathly pale. She watched Captain Lyman weeping into a large handkerchief of the bandana variety. She felt as if she were taking part in a tableau.
Then the door opened, and the senior partner entered with another newspaper in his hand.
“Good heavens! you have seen it also?” he cried. “A terrible thing!—a shocking thing!—the best thing that could have happened! Good-morning, Mrs. Wingfield. Don’t allow yourself to be upset. Let me get you a glass of wine—brandy perhaps would be better.”
“There is no need,” said Priscilla. “You see, I don’t know what has happened. Please don’t try to break it gently to me, Mr. Liscomb.”
“A kiddie with curls as fair as flax, ma’am,” cried Captain Lyman, waving his handkerchief in the direction of the lady.
The senior partner stared at him.