Anne shuddered. “Tell me about it,” she whispered relentlessly.
He fixed his eyes upon her petrified face with a groan. “Oh, Anne, must I tell you everything? Can’t I spare you anything at all?”
“Tell me everything. I can bear it if you can.” Her pupils narrowed in an agony of pity, as they fell upon his white face.
He continued in a monotonous voice that muffled his suffering as a heavy mist conceals the lip of a chasm. “I was in Chicago when I received the telegram. I cancelled my engagements and rushed back to New York on the next train. But it was too late—Claire was dead.” Head heavy on his chest, his lids drooped leadenly over a waxy face.
“Go on.” Anne’s voice was thick with tears.
“I went to the apartment. Dr. Elliott met me at the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves.” His voice choked and he was silent for a moment. “You don’t know Dr. Elliott, but he was Claire’s friend as well as her doctor. He—he loved Claire.”
Anne showed her astonishment. Was it possible that between them they had driven the child to such cheap consolation? He sensed her terror.
“No, Anne, Elliott was not Claire’s lover. He merely loved her. He would have liked to marry her if she had been willing to divorce me.”
“I see. Poor man!” Anne’s lips grew paler.
Alexis continued in the same emotionless tones.