'Why?'
'Look here. I do not wish Lady Puddicombe to see this,' he replied, taking a newspaper from his pocket, and indicating a paragraph—another brief telegram from Egypt—which ran thus:
'The detachment of the Black Watch which was sent to Matarieh to make a demonstration against the Bedouins of Zeid-el-Ourdeh has been ordered back to head-quarters, and seems to have lost its other officer—a very distinguished one—Captain Allan Graham, the Hon. the Master of Aberfeldie, who is supposed to have fallen into some of the same butcherly hands amid which Professor Palmer and his companions perished.'
'Good heavens! her brother!' exclaimed Miss Hurdell, actually changing colour.
'Yes; and it must be kept from her—to-day, at least,' said Sir Harry, concealing the fatal newspaper.
'Taken by the Bedouins—but she must learn it some time.'
'Well, I don't want her to learn it just now, poor girl, at all events. I can't make a mull of the arrangements for the day, and I don't want her to learn it here, if possible.'
'Why not here?'
'Certainly not from me.'
'Why not from you?'