"Oh, but I am thankful to see you," she said earnestly. "Ever since that paper came this afternoon, I have been in a dream! I mean an awful dream, you know,--almost a nightmare. It seemed so unreal. Though I suppose that is what real life is like, maybe?" She looked at me inquiringly.
"I never saw anything like it before, and I have lived a real life for many more years than you have," I answered, meaning to reassure her.
She looked at me under her lashes. "Oh, not so very many more! Not enough to--to make any real difference. But you don't know how queer it seems to me to have things happening like this all around you. First Gene, and now Mr. Clyde. Do you believe it is true, Mr. Hilton?"
"I can't form an opinion from newspaper tales alone," I said evasively.
By this time we were at the door, where Mrs. Whyte was waiting, with Mr. Whyte at her shoulder. They both looked worried.
"You have seen the paper?" Whyte asked, while we were shaking hands.
"Yes. On the train. Do you know where Clyde is?"
"No. I tried to get him by 'phone, but I couldn't find him, and he knows where to find me, if he wants to. What do you think of it?"
I could only repeat that I could not express an opinion without more reliable information,--blessed subterfuge of the lawyer!
Mrs. Whyte broke in emphatically. "Well, I for one do not believe it. You needn't look so wise, Carroll, as though you meant to imply that we can't be sure of anyone until he is dead. I knew Kenneth Clyde when he wore knickerbockers and I knew his father and his uncle, and I simply don't believe it. The Samovar is nothing but a political scandal-monger, anyway."