"Why, what d'you mean, Bryce?" Sir Thomas asked, in amazement.
The butler took the paper, opened it, pointed to a column, and said:
"The name 'Joseph' and Mr. Lys, sir. Mr. Lys is dead, sir. It's all here, in a special telegram to the Daily Wire."
Sir Thomas jumped up from his seat, seized the paper, and spread it out upon the supper-table.
Hampson rose also, and together the two men read the account of the doings in Wales with eyes that were nearly starting out of their heads.
The butler and the footman had meanwhile discreetly withdrawn.
Sir Thomas was the first to break the silence. He read less quickly than the practised journalist, but he was not long in supplying the connecting links of the strange story.
He raised his hand to his head, with a weary and dejected movement.
"It is beyond me," he said. "Since chance has thrown us together, and you have been so frank with me, I will be equally so with you. I, Mr. Hampson, have long had hopes that Mary Lys would be my wife."
As they sat down to supper, probably even in London, that city of marvels, no couple more unlike could have been found anywhere together at that midnight hour. The one was a millionaire, rich even in this age of huge fortunes. He was young, goodly to look upon, in perfect health, and a universal favorite in society.