‘The news comes to me by chance,’ he continued. ‘I think I ought to communicate it to Miss Snowdon privately, and leave her to let you know what it is, as doubtless she will. Would it be inconvenient to you to let me have the use of your parlour for five minutes?’
‘I’ll go and light the gas at once, and tell Miss Snowdon.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Byass.’
He was nervous, a most unusual thing with him. Till Bessie’s return he paced the room irregularly, chewing the ends of his moustache. When it was announced to him that the parlour was ready he went down, the letter in his hand. At the half-open door came a soft knock. Jane entered.
She showed signs of painful agitation.
‘Will you sit down, Miss Snowdon? It happens that I have a correspondent in the United States, who has lately had—had business relations with Mr. Joseph Snowdon, your father. On returning this evening I found a letter from my friend, in which there is news of a distressing kind.’
He paused. What he was about to say was—for once—the truth. The letter, however, came from a stranger, a lawyer in Chicago.
‘Your father, I understand, has lately been engaged in—in commercial speculation on a great scale. His enterprises have proved unfortunate. One of those financial crashes which are common in America caused his total ruin.’
Jane drew a deep breath.
‘I am sorry to say that is not all. The excitement of the days when his fate was hanging in the balance led to illness—fatal illness. He died on the sixth of February.’