Suddenly a cry rang out--a cry of mortal anguish. Two ladies who had just stepped out upon the terrace from the hotel drawing-room turned in terror; the gardener who was watering the flower-boxes at the farther end stood arrested.
"Aileen!" shrieked Lady Blanche, running to her. "What--what is it?"
The paper had dropped to the floor, but the child still pointed to it, gasping.
"Mother--mother!"
Some intuition woke in Julie. She stood dead-white and dumb, while Lady Blanche threw herself on her daughter.
"Aileen, darling, what is it?"
The girl, in her agony, threw her arms frantically round her mother, and dragged herself to her feet. She stood tottering, her hand over her eyes.
"He's dead, mother! He's--dead!"
The last word sank into a sound more horrible even than the first cry. Then she swayed out of her mother's arms. It was Julie who caught her, who laid her once more on the deck-chair--a broken, shrunken form, in whom all the threads and connections of life had suddenly, as it were, fallen to ruin. Lady Blanche hung over her, pushing Julie away, gathering the unconscious girl madly in her arms. Delafield rushed for water-and-brandy. Julie snatched the paper and looked at the telegrams.
High up in the first column was the one she sought.