No one answered her. Lord Ballina went up and down the room. Andrew Levison's foot, in its polished boot, went tap, tap, tap, as if it were part of a machine.
Then they heard it—the hoarse, raucous cry—"Evenin' Special! Slum Tragedy! 'Orrid Murder!" The words penetrated with a singular distinctness into the tent-like Eastern room, with all its warmth and perfume.
Three sharp cries of relief and excitement were simultaneously uttered as the three people stood up in a horrid tableau vivant of fear and expectation.
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty seconds. "Oh, why does he not come?" And then the door opens quietly, and a discreet manservant brings in a folded pink paper upon a silver tray.
Mimi tears it open as the man withdraws, with a low and almost animal snarl of triumph. Her eyes blaze out like emeralds. The beautiful red lips are parted; hot breath pants out between them. Then she turns suddenly white as linen. The paper falls from her hands, the life fades from her face and eyes, the strength of movement from her limbs, and she giggles feebly, as one bereft of reason.
Lord Ballina snatches up the paper, scans it with rapid eyes, and then turns to Levison.
"They have killed the wrong man!" he says, with a terrible oath. "They've murdered Sir Augustus Kirwan, and Joseph has gone free!"
Levison staggered towards him, leant on him, and read the shocking news for himself.
Lord Ballina began to weep noisily, like a frightened girl.
"It's all up with us," he said; "it's all up with us! This is the end of all of it, the hand of God is in it; we're done—lost, lost! There is no forgiveness!"