"Olney is dead, Jessica. Do you hear me, child? Olney Winthrop is dead."
The girl shook off the hand and lifted her white face.
"Yes, I know," she answered, hoarsely, almost gruffly. "What is the good of making a scene about it? Many of—of our friends have died suddenly who appeared less like it than he. What was it, Leith—typhoid? Mexico is such a beastly hole for typhoid."
Her mother heard and understood all the bravado in the tone, and a shiver passed over her that added to her pallor under all the ghastly, artificial red. But she forgot it in listening to Leith's reply.
"No," he said, heavily, "it was not fever."
"Then what?"
He glanced away from her, even shot a half-nervous glance in the direction of the door, which was something he had never done before in his life.
"What was it?" she repeated, unable to control her impatient excitement. "Not—"
"Yes, murder!"