"He must see you at once. He has been to the office, and there was a wire—"
Lancaster, who had risen, caught at the back of his chair. "Alan
Craig—safe?" he said in a husky whisper.
Neither noticed the girl's sudden pallor, the light in her eyes.
"Nonsense!" the woman rapped out. "Christopher Craig—died last night!"
CHAPTER V
Mrs. Lancaster would have accompanied her husband to the library, but for once, and despite the shock he had just suffered, he showed some firmness.
"I will see Bullard alone," he said, and left her in the hall.
He entered the library, closed and locked the door, and drew the heavy curtain across it. But there his spirit failed him, and he seemed to grope his way to his familiar chair.
Without a word Bullard put the telegram into his hands. It had been sent off at 8 a.m., the hour of opening for the local post office. It was addressed to both men, and was brief:
Mr. Craig died nine last night. Funeral private.—Caw.