‘What are they crying the papers for to-night, I wonder?’ said Mrs. Adrian, lifting her head from her work and listening.
‘Some catchpenny, I suppose,’ answered her husband. ‘A fearful murder in America, I expect, or a great earthquake in Van Diemen’s Land. Listen!’
The man was coming nearer and nearer. Presently he seemed to be opposite their door. They could almost hear the words shouted in the harsh broken voice of the London street hawker:
‘Speshul’dition! Bank city! Failer Great Blankshur Bank!’
John Adrian doubted his ears. He had not caught the slurred words aright.
He started up from his chair, his face pale and his limbs trembling, and almost ran to the front door.
The man was passing. He hailed him and took a paper. He handed him the first coin in his pocket. It was a shilling. In his excitement he clutched the paper and closed the door, never waiting for his change.
With trembling hands he unfolded the paper, and scanned the contents in the flickering light of the hall lamp.
There was no need to look far.
There it was in huge letters—letters of flame that seared his heart: