"No—what?"
"Warde will tell you; he knows." The boy ran on, not wishing to be late.
John ran, too, with his heart thumping against his side. He felt certain, from the expression upon the boy's face, that Scaife was dead. And John recalled with intense bitterness and humiliation moments in past years when he had wished that Scaife would die. Charles Desmond had told him only three weeks before that his Harry hoped to join the smart cavalry regiment in which a commission had been promised to Scaife. At that moment John was sensible of an inordinate desire for anything that might come between this wish and its fulfilment. And now, Scaife might be lying dead.
He found Warde in his study staring at a telegram. He looked up as John entered, and in silence handed him the message.
"Demon dead. Died gloriously."
The telegram came from an Harrovian, an old Manorite at the War Office.
John sat down, stunned by the news; Warde regarded him gravely. John met his glance and could not interpret it. Presently, Warde said nervously—
"Why did the fellow write 'Demon' instead of 'Scaife'? I don't like that." He looked sharply at John, who did not understand. Then he added, "I've wired for confirmation. There may be a—mistake."
"What mistake?" said John. Warde's manner confused him, frightened him. "What mistake, sir?"
Warde, twisting the paper, answered miserably—