"We did not," said Chatterton. "What has gone wrong, Hilton. Speak out, man!"
Lilian, guided by some womanly instinct, laid her hand warningly on the speaker's arm, and Dane nerved himself for the hardest task of all, as the owner of Culmeny, moving forward, stood close beside him. He was very much like what Dane's dead comrade had been—wiry, spare, and grim. The drooping gray moustache matched the pallor of his face; but his eyes were steady and keen, and only a deepening of the lines about them betrayed his anxiety.
"I fear you bring bad news," he said.
"I do," Dane answered as steadily as he could, though the older man's composure rendered his task even harder than a sign of weakness would have done. "I had hoped the cable I sent might have prepared you—and now I hardly know how to tell you."
It was just possible to see that a tremor ran through Maxwell and his lean hand closed a little more firmly than was needful on the back of a chair.
"Brevity is best. Disaster has overtaken him?"
"Yes."
The owner of Culmeny looked him full in the eyes, and it was some time before Dane could shake off the memory of that gaze.
"It is the worst—he is dead?" he said; and Dane mutely bent his head.
Brandram Maxwell's fingers trembled, and for a moment he looked at the ground; then he spoke very quietly: