Mrs. Mostyn settled down for a comfortable evening. The fire was burning brightly in the open well-grate, the arm-chair was most comfortable. With the serial page and a half-finished jumper to work at while she read, Mrs. Mostyn meant to have a quiet and restful evening's amusement.
Presently she finished the instalment of the serial. She hardly knew what to think of it. Its abrupt ending made her angry with the author, or whoever was responsible for the conclusion, while the thrilling curtain left her on thorns as to what was going to happen in the next instalment. The rest of the page usually contained very little of feminine interest, consisting mainly of sporting topics and lurid testimonials to so-and-so's patent medicines.
Quite casually her eye caught sight of a badly printed paragraph in the Stop Press column. She read it through without the full significance of it coming home to her. Then she re-read it slowly and haltingly, as if every word was burning into her brain.
"John!" she exclaimed.
"Half a moment, my dear," protested Captain Mostyn, deep in an article dealing with the coal industry.
"John!" she said again.
Captain Mostyn glanced over the top of his half of the paper. He did not like being disturbed. It usually meant that his wife had discovered a stupendous bargain in the sales column, with the inevitable result.
"Good Heavens, old lady!" he ejaculated, greatly alarmed at the grey, drawn expression on his wife's face. "What is it?"
Mrs. Mostyn did not reply. With trembling hands she gave the paper to her husband, and pointed to the grim announcement in the Stop Press column:
"Lloyd's agent at East London telegraphs, 'S.S. Maréchal Foch arrived here to-day with eighteen lascars, survivors of the S.S. West Barbican, which foundered in the Mozambique Channel on the night of the 22nd. No trace has been found of the ship's officers and the remainder of the crew. Survivors cannot give any explanation of how the disaster occurred.'"