“That you can count upon, whatever it be—from pitch-and-toss up to manslaughter. Only say how I can serve you.”
“Well, Major, in the first place I would seek your assistance in some inquiries I am about to make.”
“Inquiries! Have they regard to that young lady you said was lost—missing from her home! Surely she has been found?”
“She has—found drowned!”
“Found drowned! God bless me!”
“Yes, Mahon. The home from which she was missing knows her no more. Gwendoline Wynn is now in her long home—in Heaven!”
The solemn tone of voice, with the woe-begone expression on the speaker’s face, drives all thoughts of hilarity out of the listener’s mind. It is a moment too sacred for mirth; and between the two friends, old comrades in arms, for an interval even speech is suspended; only a word of courtesy as the host presses his guest to partake of the viands before them.
The Major does not question further, leaving the other to take up the broken thread of the conversation.
Which he at length does, holding it in hand, till he has told all that happened since they last sat at that table together.
He gives only the facts, reserving his own deductions from them. But Mahon, drawing them for himself, says searchingly—