Francis shook his head, saying into the folds of his handkerchief, “Alas, you are mistaken! I have received the most distressing tidings. These unmanly tears are not, I blush to confess, for our unfortunate young relative, but for one nearer to me by the ties of affection. Pardon me! It has cost me a severe effort to bear my part at this feast with any degree of fortitude. No, feast is not the right word: I should have said wake, but it is odd how often the funeral baked meats are partaken of in a spirit almost of jollification. My dear John, I have sustained a terrible shock which has quite overborne me!”
Both John and Nicky stood staring at him, the wildest improbabilities darting through their brains. “Why—what—?” stammered Nicky, setting down his wineglass.
Francis raised his face from his handkerchief to reply in broken accents, “You can scarcely fail to have remarked Louis’ absence today!”
“Young De Castres?” John said impatiently. “Well, and what of that?”
Francis made a despairing gesture with one white hand. “Dead!” he uttered, and sank into his handkerchief again.
“ What? ”Nicky gasped. “But—”
John’s grip on his elbow silenced him. John said, “Indeed! I am sorry for it. I fancy I saw him only the other day in town. I conclude his taking off was of a sudden nature?”
Francis shuddered eloquently. “Stabbed to death!” he moaned. “His body left under a bush in Lincoln’s Inn Fields! One of my oldest friends! I am wholly unmanned.”
“Good God!” John said blankly.
Carlyon’s quiet voice spoke from the doorway. He had come back into the room from seeing Sir Matthew off just in time to hear this revelation, and paused on the threshold, intently watching Francis. “Where had you this news?”