"They told me—at the office—a telegram had been sent," he said.
She snatched it from her pocket and put it in his hand. "I kept it from her," she said. "Take it, and let me go."
And yet she could not go.
His shaking fingers had torn open the envelope, had clutched the enclosure. It wavered so, that, standing behind him, she put her arms round his arms—tall woman as she was—her hands over his, and helped him to steady it.
"Read it," he said to her; "I can't—I can't see."
So she read aloud to him, in a voice that rose on a note of triumph and finished in a sob, the single line of the message!
"Not on board the Doughty. Tell mother all right."
Mrs Jones, coming to the dining-room door, looked out for one instant on her husband, apparently clutched in Mrs Macmichel's embrace. In the next, the lady was speeding with her long stride down the path to the gate; the clergyman had staggered into a hall chair, a succession of sounds, something between sobs and hiccoughs, issuing from his throat.
"My dear, has she hurt you?" his wife cried excitedly. "She is mad—quite mad, I am sure!"