Their shrill call came again to his ears.
“Wuxtry! Turr’ble disaster! . . . All on board!”
A train wreck, perhaps. Storm was withdrawing his head when from the second newsboy came the cry which struck terror to his heart.
“French steamer wrecked at sea! Awful loss of life!”
The Alsace! For a moment Storm stood as though petrified; then, turning, he dashed hatless from the apartment and out into the street. The newsboy raced toward him and he tore a paper from the grasp of the foremost, thrust some silver into his hand and made for the apartment once more. He dared not halt beneath a street lamp to read the staring headlines; he must be secure from observation behind closed doors when he learned the truth.
It might be some other ship. It must be! Fate would not hold out this promise of a reprieve to him only to snatch it away just as his fingers closed upon it!
Again in his apartment, he approached the lamp and spread the paper out with shaking fingers. There in bold black letters which seemed to dance mockingly before him he read:—
“S. S. Alsace Lost at Sea. No survivors.”
He tried to read on, but the letters ran together before his eyes, and he dashed the paper to the floor. The walls of his prison closed in upon him again, stiflingly, relentlessly! The cup had once more been dashed from his lips, and a groan of utter despair surged up from his heart while the bitterness of death settled upon him.