Playford gave a decisive nod. “Died before they could get him to St. George’s Hospital.”
“Are they sure it is the same man?” Greetland suggested, holding tenaciously to his line of non-acceptance.
“Absolutely,” Playford answered. “My man told me all about it. He saw the poor fellow being taken away in the ambulance. And I made a point of calling at the police-station to enquire if what I had heard was true. There is no doubt that the man was Campion; the Superintendent was quite positive. So I thought I would come and tell you at once, Duchess.”
“It was very kind of you,” the hostess replied, as graciously as her state of mind permitted. “Dear me, this distressing business seems unending.”
“Poor Countess Alexia!” Greetland remarked, slyly watching Lady Rotherfield.
The prospective hostess of the unfortunate Countess had for the moment overlooked that consequence of the tragedy.
“Ah,” she exclaimed, waking up to the fresh interest. “This poor man’s death must make all the difference to her, must it not?”
“Decidedly,” Playford answered, with a readiness bred of malice.
The Duchess had gone off to carry the news. Lady Rotherfield turned to Greetland.
“Oh, Mr. Greetland, how lucky this unpleasant news came just now. Fancy one’s feelings if one had seen it in the papers to-morrow morning, when the invitations had been posted over-night! I do hope Lady Ambrose won’t have another objectionable City person to inflict on you next Friday.”