“I—I know,” Marjorie murmured. “I telephoned the Thurstons at twelve-thirty.” She closed her eyes as if to shut out the memory of the shock she had received. “She spent the early part of the evening,” Geraldine continued, “with Rosebud Greeley, and then went to Mr. Druid’s apartment.” “Oh, my dear! My dear!” Marjorie wailed. “Go on, please, Mrs. DeLacy.” “Howard happened to know where Elinor was going, and disapproved of it. He had spent the evening with Nell Thurston, and after seeing her home, went downtown to the club, where he imbibed rather freely with some of the boys. He happened to overhear a conversation concerning Elinor and Druid, which enraged him past endurance. He jumped in a taxi and went directly to Druid’s apartment——” “Oh—mother—mother—” Elinor clutched her wildly. “I can’t bear it. Why—why——” “Hush, darling,” Marjorie patted her head, “I must hear the rest.” “When Howard arrived,” went on Mrs. DeLacy as though repeating a carefully rehearsed lesson, “a wild party was on, which only went toward confirming the things he had heard. A furious scene followed—and a—a fist battle. In the midst of which Druid pulled a revolver out of his pocket—Howard managed to secure it. There was a shot and Druid fell to the floor!” Geraldine dramatically turned her eyes as she reached her climax as though too tender-hearted to witness the mother’s despair. But underneath the lids that veiled her eyes, there was gloating. “Oh—No! No!” Marjorie felt the iron hand closing tighter around her heart. It was crushing it. “He didn’t—_kill—him_?” “Instantly!” The monosyllabic reply was like the closing of life’s chapter to the mother who heard it. The world seemed far away. She could not think—could not breathe to recognize the familiar action. That iron hand was closing and unclosing, squeezing from her heart but icy drops. Vaguely she could feel her arms about her daughter while her mind wandered to the son—could feel Elinor clutching her hands, her arms,—could hear her wailing. “Oh, mother! Mother! I loved him so! I loved him! Oh, what shall I do!” The iron hand held a dagger. It was draining her life blood. She felt it leaving her face, her limbs. She felt the gray pallor of her cheeks. Limply she sank down into the deep chair beside her (and even in her despair there came a queer flash of memory over her that it was Hugh’s chair) as she stared at the bearer of the news. Her comprehension was unable to cope with its suddenness. Elinor, clinging helplessly to her mother, fell on her knees, burying her head in her lap. “I—I can’t realize it!” Marjorie felt her lips framing the words, but to her own ears they were inaudible. “It is all—so horrible.” “I know, Mrs. Benton.” Outwardly, Geraldine was all sympathy. “But you must face this thing as bravely as you can, for Mr. Benton’s sake——” Marjorie bit her lips so hard she drew the blood in two places. “Where—where is Howard now?” she demanded.