She recollected what her feelings had been as she read that article and scores of other articles, dealing with the disappearance of Claude Westwood. She had not broken down. Her father had pointed out to her the extraordinary mistakes so easily made by the experts who wrote on the subject of Claude Westwood's disappearance; and if they were able to bring forward instances of the loss of intrepid men who had set out in the hope of adding to the world's knowledge of the world, the Admiral was able to give quite as many instances of the safe return of explorers who had been given up for lost. Thus she and her father kept up each other's hopes until the question of Claude's safety ceased to be even alluded to in the press as a topic of the day. She had never lost hope; but this fact did not prevent her having dreams of the night. She was accustomed to awake with a cry, seeing him tortured by savages--seeing him lying alone in a country where no tree was growing. And then she would remain awake through the long night, praying for his safety. That had been her life for years, and now she was still praying for his safety--praying that the day of the realisation of her hopes had at last come. She started up, hearing the sound of footsteps on the gravel path. She was at her window in time to see Sir Percival in the act of entering the porch. He had not been long absent. He could not have had a long conversation with Richard Westwood. She met him while he was still in the porch. They stood face to face for a few moments, but no word came from either of them for a long time. She seemed to think that she was about to fall, for she put out a hand to the velvet portière that hung in an arch leading to the hall--that was her right hand--her left was pressed against her heart. “You need not speak,” she whispered, when they had stood face to face in that long silence. “You need not speak. I know all that your silence implies.” “No--no--you know nothing of what I have to tell you,” said he slowly. “What have you to tell? Can you tell me anything worse than that Claude Westwood is dead?” “It is not Claude Westwood who is dead.” “Not Claude?--who--who, then, is dead?” “Richard Westwood is dead.” CHAPTER VIII. |She continued looking at him after he had spoken, as though she failed to grasp the meaning of his words. It seemed as if they conveyed nothing definite to her. “I don't think I heard you aright, Sir Percival,” she said at last. “There was no question of Richard Westwood's being alive or dead. You went to find out about Claude.” “I went to find out about Claude, but I did not get further than the lodge,” said Sir Percival. “At the lodge I heard what had happened. It is a terrible thing! The events of the day must have affected him more deeply than we imagined they would.” “You mean to tell me that Dick--that Richard Westwood is dead?” said Agnes. “He died this morning.”