“Oh, I hope there isn’t more trouble comin’ upon us!” Clara said, her gaunt countenance wrinkled into lines of foreboding.
Charmian, who had been sitting apart from the others, reading a book, looked up to say dryly: “Well, if you’re wise, you won’t say anything about this to Faith, until we discover just what has happened. Judging by what I can see of the state she’s in, I should say that she’d go into hysterics on the slightest provocation.”
“Lord, Faith wouldn’t worry her head over Ray!” Conrad said scornfully.
“Listen! What’s that?” Clara said sharply.
“Only Ingram,” Conrad answered, recognising the halting tread.
The door was thrust open; Ingram, his florid countenance strangely pale, and an expression of scarcely controlled excitement in his eyes, came in, and swallowed twice before he could manage to speak. “My God!” he uttered, dragging his handkerchief from his pocket, and passing it over his face. “Have you heard? No, I know you haven’t. Gosh, I can’t get over it!”
He was so obviously struggling under the burden of strong emotion that even Eugene was roused from his pose of languid boredom. “Well, what is it?” he demanded. “Don’t stand there gobbling at us, Ingram!”
“Ray!” Ingram jerked out. “Ray!”
“Yes, dear, we’ve already grasped that you have come to tell us something about Ray,” said Aubrey kindly. “Has he attempted to fly the country, or what?”
“He’s shot himself!”