Cadogan Square is somewhat distant from those central haunts where news first circulates, and the poker-players were uninterrupted by the intelligence of the tragedy which was being discussed all around the Parliament House and in the great clubs of the West. They neither heard it by telephone, or by the shouting of newsboys, and when at midnight a young nephew of the hostess, who was also a member of the Conservative party, came into the drawing-room he saw at a glance that the tidings he had brought with him had not been forestalled. “Oh, I say!” he cried, as he came up behind his aunt’s chair. “Oh, I say! Such a piece of news! Who do you think has been shot?” The players went on with their game unheeding. “Don’t bother, Dick!” said the lady of the house. “Who cares who’s shot?” “Somebody in Ireland, of course,” said another lady, with impatience, “Somebody at the Castle?” “Oh, but I say, Duchess,” said the young man, staring at her from behind his aunt’s chair, which was opposite to hers, “it’s your friend, you know. The fellow that bought Roxhall’s place. The member for South Woldshire, that you are so fond of. He’s been shot dead as he got out of his brougham. It was telephoned to the House as we were all coming away for dinner.” Mouse was standing up to draw a card; she dropped down on her chair as if she too had been shot; her knees shook under her, she gasped for breath. The shock was one of joy, not of grief; but it was so violent that it seemed to take her very life away in the immense relief. “Dear me, I’m sorry,” murmured the young man, greatly surprised. “Had no idea you cottoned to the cad so much.” All eyes were turned on her. “Shot? When? Where? Who shot him?” she said, in quick short gasps of broken speech. No one had ever seen her strongly moved before. “Who, nobody knows. But he was shot dead as a door-nail at his own gate this evening.” “How deeply she must be in debt to him!” thought her hostess, while she laughed and scolded her nephew for coming to disturb them with such eerie tales. Mouse recovered herself in a few moments, and as soon as she could steady her voice asked again, as the others were asking, “Who told you? Are you sure?” The young man answered, rather sulkily, that he was quite sure; everybody was talking of it in the House; it was attributed to the anarchists. “They are good for something, then,” said the hostess. “Don’t,” said Mouse, conscious that she must account for the emotion she had shown. “Please don’t, Pussie. He was a rough, common, ridiculous man, but he was very kind in his way, really kind, to poor Cocky and to me.” “Oh, my dear, what a liar you are!” thought her friend. “Are you sure he is dead?” Mouse asked of the young member again. “He might be only wounded, and not dead, you know.”