"De la Cruz," Gardiner interrupted, correcting him as he had corrected Lettice—how long ago?—only in those days he had not spoken in that tone. Again he edged nearer to the fire. He was cold to the marrow of his bones, colder than he had ever been in his life.
"Ah! Well, Gardiner, I'm sorry to say I have some bad news for you. I've received a letter from your father. It is against the rules for me to give it to you; but I can either read it or give you a summary. Shall I read it?" Gardiner made no sign; he was staring sullenly into the flames. Captain Harding, after another sharp glance at him over the top of the sheet, cleared his throat and began.
"'My own darling boy—'"
The prisoner stirred; that address touched some chord in his mind.
"'My own darling boy, I have two pieces of very bad news for you. I have been making inquiries at Headquarters in Town from all refugees, but for a long time could hear nothing of your part of the country. Last Friday, however, they wrote me that a man had come in from Bouillon. I went up at once, and heard the whole story from his lips. Alas! my dear boy, I am grieved to tell you that your friends have suffered most cruelly from Those Brutes. The village of Rochehaut was burned on 28th August, and a large number of the men were massacred. Your friend the Curé was cut down with the Sacred Vessels in his hands. I could learn nothing of the fate of the Women of the village, but it seems that in the outlying farms and cottages every kind of abomination was committed by Those Devils. I asked particularly about your hotel, and oh my dear dear boy, he tells me that it has been burned to the ground. Those Devils Incarnate (God punish them) first stole everything they had a mind to, and then set fire to the building. He saw it burning with his own eyes, as he escaped through the woods. He says that all the servants had left on the outbreak of war, and that no one was left in it but a caretaker. I do not know whether this was your little friend Miss Merion-Smith, but I should be afraid so, as she has not returned to England. What makes it particularly sad is that we hear (and this is my second piece of bad news) that poor Denis Merion-Smith is among the missing. He was sent on a bombing raid to Aix-la-Chapelle, and failed to return. One of his companions fancies that he was hit by Anti-Aircraft fire; when last seen he was "flying rather wild," but his machine seemed to be still under control. Oh my dear dear boy, my heart bleeds for you. I wish I could see you. These senseless rules and regulations make my blood boil, in times like these. I have written to the Home Secretary, but he is no good at all; he seems incapable of understanding the simplest thing. I wonder what we pay him for. It is too, too dreadful to think of the fate of that poor girl, and of poor Denis. This awful war is breaking all our hearts. May God never forgive the wicked Author of it. Tom writes that he is "going strong"—whatever that may mean; I wish he would not use this American slang. Of course he does not tell me where he is, but I believe it is somewhere on the River Aisne. God keep and comfort you, my own dear boy. From your loving Father.'
"That is all," said Captain Harding, folding the sheet.
Gardiner's lips moved; he muttered something inaudible. "What's that?" asked the Governor sharply. The murmur was repeated; it sounded like, "I killed"—him or her, uncertain which. Captain Harding could make nothing of it. He looked dubiously at the hunched-up figure, crouching into itself, staring vacantly at the carpet. Scott's pet patient—yes; but it was a hard case, no doubt of it. "You must keep up a good heart," he said kindly. "Many of the missing turn up again safe and sound, you know; and I've heard that flying officers are particularly well treated by the Germans when they fall into their hands. No use going to meet trouble half-way and believing the worst before you know it's happened."
"I killed her," muttered the prisoner again.
"You what?"
"I killed her. I sent her out there to her death. I killed her—"