‘What ever are you two doing in the hall?’ she asked, snappishly. ‘What’s in the paper, after all?’
‘Didn’t you hear what the man said, mother?’ asked Ruth, eagerly.
‘No; I can’t hear anything for my cold. What was it?—a murder?’
‘Yes, my dear,’ answered John Adrian, keeping his white face turned away. ‘A murder—an awful murder!’
‘Where?’
‘In Patagonia.’
John Adrian tried to give a little laugh, but it was a ghastly failure, and ended in a groan.
‘I thought it was a catchpenny. And the idea of your going rushing out catching your death to buy that rubbish! Murder in Patagonia, indeed! The Patagonians’ll be the death of you before you’re done.’
Mrs. Adrian went back to her chair. Mr. Adrian made some excuse and went upstairs to his room, bidding Ruth go in and talk to her mother.
When he came down he was still pale, and his face had a look of agony upon it which he could not well banish. But he complained of sudden toothache, and Mrs. Adrian went to sleep that night in happy ignorance of the awful misfortune which had fallen upon them.