With the key in her hand, Mabel hurried down the passage, her slippers making no sound on the matting. There was a light in Dick’s den, and Fitz and Captain Winlock were shovelling armfuls of papers and various small articles into a huge camel-trunk which stood open in the middle of the floor. As Mabel reached the door, Winlock held out something to Fitz. “Not much good taking this, at any rate,” he said, and a cold hand seemed to grip Mabel’s heart as she saw that it was Dick’s tobacco-pouch, which Georgia, with what his sister considered a reprehensible toleration of her husband’s pleasant vices, had worked for him.
“No, put it in,” said Fitz gruffly. “It may comfort her to have it.”
A slight sound at the door, half gasp, half groan, made both men jump, and looking round they saw Mabel, her eyes wide with terror.
“Mr Anstruther, what has happened to Dick?”
The words were barely audible. Fitz stood guiltily silent.
“Tell me,” she said.
“He was wounded,” growled Winlock.
“It’s worse than that, I know. Is he taken prisoner?”
“No,” was the unwilling reply.
“Then he’s killed! Oh!——” but before Mabel could utter another word, Fitz’s hand was upon her mouth.