father. On returning this evening I found a letter from my friend, in which there is news of a distressing kind.”
He paused. What he was about to say was—for once—the truth. The letter, however, came from a stranger, a lawyer in Chicago.
“Your father, I understand, has lately been engaged in—in commercial speculation on a great scale. His enterprises have proved unfortunate. One of those financial crashes which are common in America caused his total ruin.”
Jane drew a deep breath.
“I am sorry to say that is not all. The excitement of the days when his fate was hanging in the balance led to illness—fatal illness. He died on the sixth of February.”
Jane, with her eyes bent down, was motionless. After a pause, Scawthorne continued:
“I will speak of this with Mr. Percival to-morrow, and every inquiry shall be made—on your behalf.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She rose, very pale, but with more self-command than on entering the room. The latter part of his communication seemed to have affected her as a relief.
