“You’re sure,” he said, “to have heard a garbled account of what happened, before you get this letter. I want to tell you the facts before I take further action.”
The word “facts” was underlined shakily. I had, of course, heard no account of anything which had happened. I handed the letter to Marion.
“Do you know what this means?” I asked.
Marion read it.
“Rose told me this morning,” she said, “that there had been some kind of a row last night. She said Godfrey was killed.”
“That isn’t true at all events,” I said. “He’s still alive.”
“Of course I didn’t believe her,” said Marion.
“But I think you ought to have told me at breakfast,” I said. “I hate having these things sprung on me suddenly. At my time of life even good news ought to be broken to me gradually. Any sudden shock is bad for the heart.”
“I thought there might be no truth in the story at all,” said Marion, “and you know, father, that you don’t like being worried.”
I don’t. But I am worried a great deal.