He was about to return to the remnants of the supper when his eyes fell on the folded paper, which had been pushed to one side of the table.
“Oh, look!” he said; “we forgot the paper. You’ve finished; wouldn’t you like to see it?”
She shook her head. The paper had not much interest for her at the best of times.
“Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll run my eye over it, while you make me another cup of tea. Three cups are my limit—one lump and milk.”
He handed her the cup, already shaking the paper out of its folds. She was struggling with the leakage of the broken spout, when he gave a loud ejaculation:
“Great Scott! here’s news!”
“What is it?” she queried, the broken teapot suspended over the cup.
“Jake Shackleton’s dead!”
The teapot fell with a crash on the table. Her mouth opened, her face turned an amazing pallor, and she sat staring at the astonished man with horror-stricken eyes.
“Dead!” she gasped; “why everybody’s dead!”