It was a shock. Hammersley’s letter of a few weeks ago had prepared her for his indefinite advent; but the thought of death had not come to her. Will Hammersley was dying, apparently alone, in an hotel at Marseilles; dying, too, in an atmosphere of mystery, for he must see her, and Quixtus too, before he died. The message was urgent, the appeal imperative.
“Oh, Clementina, I hope it’s not bad news,” cried Etta.
Clementina handed the telegram to Tommy.
“It’s from the sick man of Shanghai who pined for the English lanes.”
“Poor chap,” said Tommy very gently. “Poor chap! I remember him well. A fine upstanding fellow, one of the best. Once he gave me a cricket-bat.” The artist in him shivered. “It’s awful to think of a man like that dying. What are you going to do?”
“What do you think?”
“Take the night train to Marseilles,” replied Tommy.
“Then why did you ask?” said Clementina.
“But what shall we do?” cried Etta.
“Oh, you and Tommy can stay here till I come back.”