“I don't know how she will take it, Howard. I wish you could be here, anyhow.”
But then had come the battle and his father's death, and in the end it was Willy Cameron who told her. He had brought back all that was mortal of Anthony Cardew, and, having seen the melancholy procession up the stairs, had stood in the hall, hating to intrude but hoping to be useful. Howard found him there, a strange, disheveled figure, bearing the scars of battle, and held out his hand.
“It's hard to thank you, Cameron,” he said; “you seem to be always about when we need help. And”—he paused—“we seem to have needed it considerably lately.”
Willy Cameron flushed.
“I feel rather like a meddler, sir.”
“Better go up and wash,” Howard said. “I'll go up with you.”
It happened, therefore, that it was in Howard Cardew's opulent dressing-room that Howard first spoke to Willy Cameron of Akers' death, pacing the floor as he did so.
“I haven't told her, Cameron.” He was anxious and puzzled. “She'll have to be told soon, of course. I don't know anything about women. I don't know how she'll take it.”
“She has a great deal of courage. It will be a shock, but not a grief. But I have been thinking—” Willy Cameron hesitated. “She must not feel any remorse,” he went on. “She must not feel that she contributed to it in any way. If you can make that clear to her—”
“Are you sure she did not?”