"Oh, Fred!"
A great wavering sigh escaped her, a sigh that ended in a sob, plaintive, wailing, sad. But still her eyes stared blankly.
"Sit down, Jess," he said softly.
"No, no. Let me stand. Let me—I want to face it. Don't leave me, Fred, don't leave me."
She swayed, and the staring eyes closed. He slipped his arm round her waist to support her and at the touch she came forward, flinging her arms round him as her head drooped upon his shoulder and she burst into a fit of wild, tempestuous weeping.
So he held her, his head bent upon hers, his arms supporting her. Not until the storm of sobs had abated did he speak.
"Sit down, now, Jess. You will be better resting," he whispered.
"No, no," she answered. "No, no. Let me stay—a moment."
A hum of voices came from the road outside, for the news, flying through the town, brought everybody out to tell and hear.
With one accord they gathered round the police-station, which was almost opposite the cottage, and stood in the road discussing the latest phase of the mystery, the phase which brought into it the note of tragedy. Then someone remembered the cottage and who was in it, and passed the word along. The loud voices were hushed as the men, actuated by the rough sympathy of the bush, quietly moved away so that the sound of their voices should not reach the woman on whom a fresh blow had fallen.