“How did he die?”
“Gallantly,” replied the caller, now convinced she had no interest in the matter, save that of a mere 433 acquaintance. “His death is described in half a column. You see he did not live in vain!”
“Was he––killed in battle?”
“In a skirmish. His company was sent to break up a band of guerilla rancheros at Antigua. They ambushed him; he drove them out of the thicket but fell––You have dropped your flowers. Allow me!––at the head of his men.”
“At the head of his men!” She drew in her breath.
“There passed the last of an ill-fated line,” said the lawyer, reflectively. “Poor fellow! He started with such bright prospects, graduating from the military college with unusual honors. Ambitious, light-hearted, he went to Africa to carve out a name in the army. But fate was against him. The same ship that took him over carried back, to the marquis, the story of his brother’s disgrace––”
“His brother’s disgrace!” she exclaimed.
Culver nodded. “He sold a French stronghold in Africa, Miss Carew.”
Had the attorney been closely observing her he would have noticed the sudden look of bewilderment that crossed her face. She stared at him with her soul in her eyes.
“Ernest Saint-Prosper’s––brother?”