‘Marian,’ she said, beginning to cry again, ‘it is shocking bad news. It is incredible. It may all come right, but it is not the less terrible.’
I drew in several deep breaths, and said: ‘Why will you not tell me this dreadful news of Tom?’
‘He is in London.’
‘In London!’ I shrieked, springing to my feet.
She pulled me gently to the sofa, and putting her hand in her pocket, drew forth a letter.
‘Your health would not allow me to speak to you before,’ said she in a broken voice. ‘Even now I fear that I am in too great a hurry. But what am I to do? You would not thank me for any longer concealing the truth. Tom is in prison, Marian.’
I stared at her and shivered.
‘Your uncle’s letter,’ she continued, opening it with both hands which trembled excessively, ‘will better explain what has happened than I can. Will you read it?’
I took it. The handwriting reeled. I returned the letter to her and said: