“Horrible—most horrible!”
“For heaven’s sake, what is the matter?”
“Moreland has been murdered.”
“Moreland! What? Where? Whom do they suspect?”
“And her father wishes me to tell Eleanor. You are her cousin, James; will you not be the fittest person?” the hope crossing me that he would undertake the delivery of the message.
“I!” he exclaimed, leaning against the case of books beside him. “I! oh, no, not I. I’d be the last person! I’d look well telling her about it, wouldn’t I?” and he half laughed, though trembling from head to foot.
If I thought his manner strange, I did not wonder at it—the dreadful nature of the shock had unnerved all of us.
“Where is Mary?” I asked; “we had better tell her first, and have her present. Indeed, I wish—”
I had turned toward the door, which opened into the hall, to search for the younger sister, as I spoke; the words died on my lips. Eleanor was standing there. She had been coming in to get a book, and had evidently heard what had passed. She was as white as the morning dress she wore.
“Where is he?” Her voice sounded almost natural.