Without waiting for an answer she left her seat, and, crossing swiftly to the door, flung it wide open.
Joan staggered in, and, dropping into the welcoming arms of a rocking-chair, she buried her face in her hands.
Mercy Lascelles stood silently contemplating the bowed head. There was no sympathy in her attitude. Her heart was cold and hard as steel. But she was interested in the cause rather than the effect.
After a while the storm of grief slackened. The racking sobs came at longer intervals. Then it was that Mercy Lascelles broke the silence.
“Well?” she demanded sharply.
The tear-stained face was slowly lifted, and the sight of the girl’s distress was heart-breaking.
“He is dead,” Joan said in a choking voice. Then, with something like resentment—“Are—are you satisfied?”
Mercy went back to her chair and her beloved crystal. And after a moment she began to speak in a low, even tone, as though reciting a well-learnt lesson.
“It was at the crossing of 36th Street and Lisson Avenue, here the street cars cross, here some also turn off. It was the fault of his horse. The creature shied at a heavy truck. Two cars were approaching from east and west. The shying horse slipped on the granite paving, fell, and was caught between the two meeting cars before they could pull up. The horse was killed on the spot, and—the rider was——”