Then French came in, and behind him a lady in black, dishevelled, bathed in tears. The vicar hung back. Roger turned in astonishment.
"Mother! You here? Mother!"—he hurried to her—"what's the matter?"
She tottered toward him with outstretched hands.
"Oh Roger, Roger!"
His name died away in a wail as she clasped him.
"What is it, mother?"
"It's Beatty—my son!—my darling Roger!" She put up her hands piteously, bending his head down to her. "It's a cable from Washington, from that woman, Mrs. Verrier. They did everything, Roger—it was only three days—and hopeless always. Yesterday convulsion came on—and this morning——" Her head dropped against her son's breast as her voice failed her. He put her roughly from him.
"What are you talking of, mother! Do you mean that Beatty has been ill?"
"She died last night. Roger—my darling son—my poor Roger!"
"Died—last night—Beatty?"