“Oh, but I say, Duchess,” said the young man, staring at her from behind his aunt’s chair, which was opposite to hers, “it’s your friend, you know. The fellow that bought Roxhall’s place. The member for South Woldshire, that you are so fond of. He’s been shot dead as he got out of his brougham. It was telephoned to the House as we were all coming away for dinner.”
Mouse was standing up to draw a card; she dropped down on her chair as if she too had been shot; her knees shook under her, she gasped for breath. The shock was one of joy, not of grief; but it was so violent that it seemed to take her very life away in the immense relief.
“Dear me, I’m sorry,” murmured the young man, greatly surprised. “Had no idea you cottoned to the cad so much.”
All eyes were turned on her.
“Shot? When? Where? Who shot him?” she said, in quick short gasps of broken speech.
No one had ever seen her strongly moved before.
“Who, nobody knows. But he was shot dead as a door-nail at his own gate this evening.”
“How deeply she must be in debt to him!” thought her hostess, while she laughed and scolded her nephew for coming to disturb them with such eerie tales.
Mouse recovered herself in a few moments, and as soon as she could steady her voice asked again, as the others were asking, “Who told you? Are you sure?”
The young man answered, rather sulkily, that he was quite sure; everybody was talking of it in the House; it was attributed to the anarchists.