The fears which had been torturing Edith all the evening suddenly took a more concrete form. “What!” she cried, clutching at her breast—“I—I don’t understand.”
“You were acquainted with Mr. William West, were you not, Mrs. Rogers?” He turned to her with a look of interrogation.
Edith stared at him in wide-eyed terror, her fingers convulsively clutching the lace at her throat. “Were!” she cried. “Were!” then relapsed into silence. Donald seemed surprised at her agitation; to him it meant nothing. He turned to Mr. Brennan. “Certainly. Billy West. He’s one of my best friends.”
“It is with the deepest regret that I am obliged to inform you of his death.” Mr. Brennan’s voice was not so even as it had been, and held a note of sorrow. He had been genuinely fond of West, and the latter’s death was a great shock to him.
Edith shrank back with a cry, her hand over her eyes, as though trying to ward off this sudden blow. Her sister put her arm about her. “Edith!” she whispered, and spoke to her in a low voice. The others were too much surprised by the lawyer’s announcement to give much attention to her agitation.
Donald was the first to speak. “Dead! Billy West dead! Impossible!” He gazed at Mr. Brennan with a stare of incredulity.
“Unfortunately not, Mr. Rogers. I only wish it were. Mr. West died suddenly last Friday in Denver, Colorado, following an operation for appendicitis.”
In his sudden realization of his friend’s death, Donald turned away, the tears very near the surface. “Poor old chap!” he muttered. “Poor old Billy!” He looked over at his wife. “Edith, isn’t it terrible? Think of it, Billy West dead.”
“Why do you come to tell us? How do you know?” asked Edith, staring at Mr. Brennan in a frightened way.