'Regret to announce death of Theodore Trist, your son—or something of that description. Don't exceed the shilling's worth.'
The editor passed his strong white hand thoughtfully across his chin with a rasping sound.
'Is there no one else?' he asked indifferently.
Trist thought deeply for a moment.
'Ye-es,' he murmured, in the manner of a man who makes an effort to remember some small social debt.
The editor opened again the small leather-bound book wherein he had noted the address of the nice old gentleman living in the West Country. He passed his pen over the page and waited silently.
'Miss Brenda Gilholme,' Trist dictated slowly, in order that his hearer might write, 'care of Mrs. Wylie, Suffolk Mansions, W., or Wyl's Hall, Wyvenwich.'
These items having been duly inscribed, the journalist closed the book methodically and locked it away in a drawer.
'And how,' he inquired, 'shall I break it to ... Miss Brenda Gilholme?'
'Oh—you need not trouble to beat round the bush. There will be no hysterics.'