The sight of Jean shunted her from this theme to self-pity. She clung to her hysterically, declaring she was her only friend and calling upon the reporters to witness what a friend she was! They had, of course, heard of Francis Craig Atwood, the great artist? This was his wife—her old friend, her only friend. Jean urged her gently toward the bedroom, and, shutting the door upon her, turned and asked the pressmen to go. They assented and left immediately, save one of boyish face who delayed some minutes for sympathetic comment on the tragedy.
"I'm only a cub reporter, Mrs. Atwood," he added, "and I have to take back something. That's the rule in our office—get the story or get out. Poor Mrs. Chapman was too upset to give me anything of value. Perhaps you'd be willing to help me make good?"
"I know nothing but what the papers have told," Jean replied.
"I don't mean the shooting—merely a fact or two about Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, whom you know so well. When were they married?"
"I can't tell you," she said hastily. "I—I was not present."
"But approximately? I don't want the dates. She looks a bride, and you know the public is interested in brides. They haven't lived here long, I suppose?"
"No; not long," she assented, thankful for the loophole; "a few weeks."
"This was their first home?"
"Practically. They boarded for a time. Excuse me now, please. You must see how much she needs me."
"She is lucky to have you, Mrs. Atwood. Girlhood friends, I presume?"