"No," Amberley said gravely. "I'm afraid I haven't. Will you let me come in for a moment?"
His unusual gentleness warned her that something was amiss. Her eyes questioned him dumbly.
"I haven't come to make myself a nuisance to you," he said with a slight smile. "I've got a piece of bad news to deliver."
Her hand shook on the door. "Something has happened to Mark!" she whispered.
"Yes," he replied briefly.
She stood back, allowing him to enter. "Please tell me. Is he dead?"
He drew her into the living room and stood looking rather sternly down at her. "Yes, he's dead. Will you tell me why you so instantly leaped to that conclusion?"
She put her hands up to her face, pressing the palms against her temples. "You said you had not come - to worry me - with questions. When he's late like this - I always imagine things. How did it happen?"
"He was on his way home, drunk, of course - and he apparently stumbled over the edge of the bank into the river.
Her hands fell to her sides. He saw her draw a quick breath. Her eyes, fixed on his face, held a look of terror. He realised suddenly that he had never before seen her afraid. For the first time she struck him as being pathetic, with her gallant pretence of calm and those great, searching eyes trying to read what he was thinking.