"I left Maggie—I came ahead—I overheard—" she began disjointedly, "Robert—the cholera—Robert—?" and then as neither of the men spoke, she cried, "Oh, sir, indeed it may be a mistake—sometimes, you know the names—"
Trevelyan's father looked down at the girl, and into her eyes full of unshed tears, and on the small white hand on his arm he placed his own—the one that had held the sabre at Inkerman. It was an old hand, thin and vividly veined, and it trembled.
"The report was signed by Mackenzie," said Stewart at last.
"There is some mistake—there must be—the letters—" cried Cary.
"We will have to wait for the letters, child." Trevelyan's father turned away.
Stewart came up to her.
"It was at the India Office yesterday—the Secretary—after all—" he broke off.
She looked from one to the other, but she still stood by Trevelyan's father. Suddenly she sat down in the high backed chair he had occupied, clinging to his hand, her eyes on his face. Stewart went back to the window.
"But think what he did——"
Trevelyan's father looked down at her again and his face twitched.