“Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
Bertha did not feel faint. She was a little horrified at the clearness with which she was able to understand Arthur Branderton. She seemed to feel nothing at all. The young man looked at her as if he expected that she would weep or swoon.
“Would you like me to send my wife to you?”
“No, thanks.”
Bertha understood quite well that her husband was dead, but the news seemed to make no impression upon her. She heard it unmoved, as though it referred to a stranger. She found herself wondering what young Branderton thought of her unconcern.
“Won’t you sit down,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to a chair. “Shall I get you some brandy?”
“I’m all right, thanks. You need not trouble about me—Where is he?”
“I told them to take him upstairs. Shall I send Ramsay’s assistant to you? He’s here.”
“No,” she said, in a low voice. “I want nothing. Have they taken him up already?”