“No, stop!” cried Myra. “I am not a child now, father. I tell you that there is news in that paper about my husband. Give it to me. I will see.”
Sir Mark was as agitated now as his child, and with a hurried gesture, perfectly natural under the circumstances, he thrust the paper behind him. “No, no, my child,” he stammered, with his florid face growing mottled and strange.
“I say there is, father, and you are deceiving me.”
“Well, yes, a little, my darling,” he said hastily. “A little. Not for your ears, dear. Another time when you are cool and calm, you know. Edie, my dear, come to her; talk to her. Myra, my child, leave it to me.”
Myra’s hand went to her throat as if she were stifling, but once more she forced back her emotion.
“Something about—the prison—my husband?”
“Yes, yes, my dear. Nothing so very particular. Now do—do leave it to me, and try to be calm. You frighten me. There, there, my pet,” he continued, trying to take her hand; “go to your room for a bit with Edie, and—yes, yes, lie down.”
“Give me the paper,” she said hoarsely.
“No, no, I cannot, indeed, my dear.”
“Ah!” cried the agitated girl wildly. “I know—they have set him free?”